A Gryffindor Tried and True
by Meercat
Summary: [COMPLETE] Voldemort discovers Snape's role as a spy. Harry is dying. Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom to the rescue.
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE**:    A Gryffindor Tried and True

**AUTHOR:**   Meercat

**LONGER SUMMARY: **Harry Potter dislikes Severus Snape. Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter. No one is more shocked than the Hogwarts Potion Master when Harry takes a potentially fatal spell to save the Death Eater turned Phoenix spy. Harry's sole hope of survival lies with Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and, of all people, Neville Longbottom.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This is my first HP fic. Come June 21, 2003, it will most certainly become an AU fic. (YIPPEE--BOOK FIVE!!!) Something tells me Neville Longbottom has some role to play in JKR's future HP novels. There's a reason why he is a Gryffindor. This is my way of spotlighting the traits that make him worthy of that House.

Chapter 1 

     Minerva McGonnagall wrung her hands and watched members of the staff regather in the faculty common room.

     "Any sign of him?"

     "Not a one." Rubius Hagrid sighed. The half-giant shook his shaggy head and scratched his right ear. "No one's seen hide nor hair of him since before breakfast. It's like he's done fallen off the face o' the earth!"

     "Where in the name of Godric Gryffindor has that boy gotten to?"

     It wasn't unusual for Neville Longbottom to stumble into a class as much as ten minutes late. It was, however, most unlike him to miss class entirely. He'd definitely not miss three classes in a row. By the time Professor Sprout reported him absent from Herbology, he'd not been seen by a living soul in over six hours.

     With full dark fallen on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the searchers were at a loss as to where to look next.

     "Let's go over the situation again. Maybe we can think of something helpful," Minerva said. No one objected. "The last known sighting was before breakfast this morning. Several Gryffindors report seeing him in the tower, running late as usual. No one recalls seeing him at breakfast. None of the house elves brought him food. He never attended a single class. Basically, no one has seen him since six o'clock this morning."

     "We've searched the halls, the library, classrooms, the Quidditch pitch, everywhere," Sprout sighed.

     "He's not in hospital wing," Madame Pomfrey, the school mediwitch, reported, "or anywhere close by."

     "I searched the grounds," Hagrid said. "Got Fang to sniffin' for his scent. I even trekked a-ways into the Dark Forest. Nothin'."

     "Teams of students scoured the school looking for him but found nothing," Madame Hooch, the flying instructor, reported.

     The Potions Master, Severus Snape, leaned against the head table and said, "Perhaps he finally decided to give up and go home. It wouldn't surprise me in the least."

     "Really, Severus," McGonnagall scolded. "That isn't very helpful."

     "Admit it, Minerva. Neville Longbottom is the poorest excuse for a student this school has seen in a thousand years."

     "Only because you bully and frighten him into a corner every chance you get," Pomfrey cut back.

     "He's a Gryffindor," Snape replied. His voice swam in the Potions Master's trademark sarcasm. "Surely a _Gryffindor_ should be able to handle a few harsh words."

     "Let's not argue amongst ourselves," McGonnagall said. "It serves no purpose and pulls us away from our goal, which first and foremost is to find a missing student."

     Pomfrey said, "The most we can do is make another search of the grounds and pray we've missed something."

     "Agreed." McGonnagall stiffened her shoulders. "If we haven't found him by nine tonight, we must send an owl to London, to the Headmaster. Albus will need to know."

     A half-smile crossed Snape's face. "And his grandmother."

     Minerva cringed, well envisioning the scene such a message would create. "Yes."

     The head of Gryffindor House opened the door out of the faculty common room. A sea of students waited in the corridor. In the van stood Longbottom's yearmates, foremost among them Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Seamus Finnigan.

     Harry pounced on his Head of House the instant she appeared in the doorway. "Anything, Professor?"

     "Nothing yet. All of you, return to your dormitories. We will continue the search."

     "Please," Hermione asked, "can't we help?"

     "And risk losing more of you in the dark?" Snape crooned. "That would certainly improve the situation."

     "No, Ms. Granger," Professor McGonnagall said. "We thank you for the offer, but the best thing you can do is return to your rooms."

     With clear reluctance the one hundred or so students, a mix of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs, split into groups, all headed toward their home towers.

     "Oh, and Mr. Potter." Harry turned back at the Potions Master's soft call. The mass of students continued on until only Harry, Ron, and Hermione remained. "I expect there to be absolutely no forays into the school, say, by way of an _invisibility cloak_?"

     Harry slumped, having planned just such a thing. "No, sir."

     ###

     Severus Snape made a final pass through the greenhouse. Between the light of a full moon that streamed through the glass ceiling and the glow from his wand tip, he could see into every shadowed corner of the room.

     He stared out through the glass walls and across the Hogwarts grounds. Lights flickered in every tower and around every entrance, giving the school a deceptively peaceful glow.  
  


"Where are you, boy?" he muttered to himself.

     Though he would admit nothing even under threat of torture, Severus Snape was worried. However much he might lack in patience, he could not deny some form of connection to Neville Longbottom. He'd been part of the group that had arrived too late to rescue the boy's parents. Torture had ripped their sanity away, leaving them little more than gibbering shells. 

     Far away, stone scraped against stone. Severus spun around, searching for the source of the noise. A back wall, covered in climbing vines, trembled. Plants bulged forward and down. Something huge landed on the floor directly at his feet.

     Snape stared down at the writhing mass of plants. He raised his wand, ready with a dozen spells of defense.

     "Ow! Ow ow ow!"

     Snape stepped back, surprised enough to gasp, "Longbottom?"

     Severus grabbed a handful of vine and yanked it away. Cocooned in greenery, visible in the light from moon and wand, lay Neville Longbottom.

     Grass stains and clumps of dirt soiled his clothing, from robes to sweater to trousers. Fragments of vine wrapped his right boot. Rich, black soil coated his pants from knees to ankle. Angry scratches covered his face and hands. His cloak was little more than ribboned tatters across his shoulders. A pale blue, sword-shaped flower peeked from beneath his collar.

     "Ow-" Neville's eyes tracked from Snape's boots, up his legs, all the way to his scowling, shadowed face. "Oooooh. No."

     Snape pulled the teen to his feet. He shook him by the shoulder and demanded, "Where have you been, boy! Do you know you've had the entire school out looking for you since midday?"

     "I-I-I-"

     "Well? Speak up!"

     "I--g-got l-l-lo-lost."

     Snape blinked in disbelief. "_LOST?_ Five years you've been a student here, and you _'got lost'_?"

     Neville cringed away, looking close to tears. With a final snarl, Snape pushed the boy toward the exit. The Potions Master aimed his wand at his throat and muttered a spell. His voice projected to every corner of the school.

     "I found him. Unhurt. It seems our wayward fifth-year 'got lost.'"

     ###

     Neville Longbottom trudged back to his tower dorm. Snickers and mockery from his fellow students, especially when he passed a Slytherin, rang in his ears. His appearance in the Gryffindor common room raised a shout from every student gathered there. Concerned classmates, all demanding to know where he'd been all day, surrounded him. They would have hounded him for an answer had Hermione Granger not clucked and demanded that they give him time to clean up before they beat the answers out of him.

     Face aflame with embarrassment, Neville climbed the stairs to the boy's dormitory. There, he quickly shed his ruined clothes, treated the stinging cuts and scrapes with a salve Madame Pomfrey made for him (he was forever hurting this or that), and redressed.

     He fingered the dozen jagged rips in his Gryffindor robe--_Gran is going to kill me for this. She'll send a Howler, just watch._

     As he had every day since the Sorting Hat yelled _"Gryffindor!"_ over his head, Neville Longbottom wondered why? He had none of the characteristics typical of someone in the House most noted for bravery and courage. Who, or _what_, was he to be a part of the same House as the likes of brave Harry Potter, brilliant Hermione Granger, and loyal Ron Weasley? The very thought of leaving the ground on a broom terrified him. He cringed every time a teacher called on him. He stuttered and stammered in every class except Herbology.

     So he could repot a plant or tell a weed from an herb--how brave was _that_?

     And worst of all, why had he tumbled out of the tunnel to land at the feet of the one professor in all of Hogwarts who reveled at the chance to chastise him and detract points from Gryffindor? Why couldn't it have been Sprout, McGonnagall, or even Dumbledore, _anyone_ but _Snape_? No, in typical Longbottom fashion, he had ended his adventure in the worse way possible.

     Still . . . his mind roamed back over the events of the day. He had some right to be proud of what he'd accomplished, even though he was too embarrassed to tell the tale to anyone. He'd made it through the maze, survived the room, and found the exit, all by himself.

     Neville reached beneath his bed and pulled out a wooden box as long as his forearm and a foot deep. A flick of his wand and a whispered spell released the lock and lifted the lid. Within he kept his most treasured mementos, mostly photos and letters, including his Hogwarts acceptance letter and his Gran's note of grudging praise for the points he'd won on the last day of his first year--the points that had gained Gryffindor the coveted House Cup.

     He removed a large monogrammed handkerchief from his wardrobe and pressed it flat on the bed. He pried the remnants of leaves, vines, flowers, and earth from his clothing and placed each one neatly on the square of cloth. Neville stared at the specimens a moment before rolling the cloth into a smart, creaseless linen tube.

     The handkerchief, with the elaborately swirling scarlet and gold "L" on top, went into the box. He closed the lid and returned the box to its place beneath the bed. He would never tell anyone what he'd done. At least he had something to remember his adventure by.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**TITLE**:    A Gryffindor Tried and True

**AUTHOR:**   Meercat

**LONGER SUMMARY: **Harry Potter dislikes Severus Snape. Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter. No one is more shocked than the Hogwarts Potion Master when Harry takes a potentially fatal spell to save the Death Eater turned Phoenix spy. Harry's sole hope of survival lies with Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and, of all people, Neville Longbottom.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE #1:  **This is my first HP fic. Come June 21, 2003, it will most certainly become an AU fic. (YIPPEE--BOOK FIVE!!!) Something tells me Neville Longbottom has some role to play in JKR's future HP novels. There's a reason why he is a Gryffindor. This is my way of spotlighting the traits that make him worthy of that House.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE #2:** To Dragon Fairy: Your wish is my command. J

Chapter 2 

     Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, rushed into the hospital wing with a most uncustomary haste. Dark green robes flowed about him. Long white hair and beard billowed, and a concerned gaze stared at Severus over the rim of gold-framed glasses. Autumn leaves fluttered away from his robes to litter the floor behind him.

     "What happened?"

     Severus Snape lay on a far corner bed in the hospital wing, undressed except for the filthy remnants of his trousers and a light sheet thrown over his lower legs. Angry red whelts rose in straight lines across his muscular chest and back, while bloody scrapes and raw burns crisscrossed his arms. Blood--some dry, some still glistening moist--coated his right arm from shoulder to fingertips like a thick coat of scarlet paint.

     "It seems Voldemort suspected a spy in his ranks. I, unfortunately, fell into his trap."

     Albus' hands skimmed over the younger wizard's back and shoulders, as though scanning for injuries. His expression turned anxious.

     "How badly are you hurt?"

     "A few minor hexes and occasional--dammit, _be careful_-" He glared at Pomfrey. "-cuts and scrapes. Nothing serious."

     Dumbledore stared over his dark head to the mediwitch for confirmation. "Poppy?"

     "This sword slash on his shoulder is the worst of it, though the blood lose makes it serious enough." Pomfrey glared right back at her patient. "The hexes were easy enough to remove, but he won't be leaving here for at least a day. Two if he argues with me about it."

     Snape growled low in his throat and gnashed his teeth but settled onto the bed without further objection. His attention seemed set on the view from the nearest window, where brisk autumn winds worked hard to defoliate many of the trees.

     Dumbledore deflated in relief. He took a deep, calming breath then said, "Tell me precisely what happened."

     "As I said before," Snape pulled his attention off the view and back to the conversation at hand, "Voldemort suspected someone close to him was working for the light. He set a trap, gave each member of his inner circle a different piece of false information."

     Albus nodded. "The apothecary in Knockturn Alley."

     "Precisely. We raided the place and found nothing. Voldemort, however, discovered which of his Death Eaters had betrayed him."

     Dumbledore waved a hand toward the mass of injuries that marred the younger wizard's entire upper body and the milky pallor of his habitually pale skin.

     "And this happened at last night's summons?"

     "Yes. I arrived, only to find Malfoy and four others waiting for me. I won't go into extended detail. Suffice it to say they were more than happy to do their best to take me down. I disapparated a bare instant ahead of a _stupefy_ spell."

     "This is unfortunate but not entirely unexpected. It was only a matter of time until Voldemort found you out. It was to our benefit that you held out for as long as you did."

     "To be perfectly honest," Snape admitted, "I'm a bit surprised to have escaped alive."

     "As am I. Take care, Severus," the Headmaster warned. "You are now quite high on Voldemort's list of most hated people."

     Snape drew his attention off Poppy as the mediwitch sealed the slash with a sticky, purple salve. The former Death Eater raised a sardonic eyebrow.

     "As high as young Mr. Potter perhaps?"

     Dumbledore was in no mood for humor, even the dark kind.

     "Do not joke about this. Voldemort's assassins, or an enterprising young Death Eater in search of his master's favor, will try to kill you the first chance they get. If you leave the school grounds, you will be vulnerable. To be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely certain you're safe even on Hogwarts grounds."

     "I am aware of the danger, Headmaster," Snape said. "I will be careful. And I am also aware of the defenses you have placed around the school, its environs, in and around Hogsmead, and even around certain people, myself and the aforementioned Mr. Potter included." He pointed to his own body and said, "I daresay they played a key role in limiting the damage."

     Dumbledore stared away, embarrassed. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

     "Not notice when someone tries to protect me? Really, Headmaster."

     "Hmmmmm."

     A rush of rosy color stained Snape's white skin. "And . . . thank you for caring."

     Albus smiled and laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "It was my pleasure. I will do all that is necessary to safeguard those I care about. And that includes you, my friend."

     The Headmaster turned to leave. He paused in the doorway when Snape said, "It's an odd thing."

     "What is?"

     "Having a friend."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**TITLE**:    A Gryffindor Tried and True

**AUTHOR:**   Meercat

**LONGER SUMMARY: **Harry Potter dislikes Severus Snape. Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter. No one is more shocked than the Hogwarts Potion Master when Harry takes a potentially fatal spell to save the Death Eater turned Phoenix spy. Harry's sole hope of survival lies with Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and, of all people, Neville Longbottom.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Okay. Now, the real action starts!

Chapter 3 

     With Christmas leave only four days away, the entire population of Hogwarts enjoyed the foods and decorations of the season. At the head table, the faculty chatted amongst themselves. At each of the four House tables, students exchanged gifts, played practical jokes on one another (led, not surprisingly, by Fred and George, the Weasley twins), laughed, and stuffed themselves on cakes and sweets.

     At the Slytherin table, seated next to a roaring hearth fire, Draco Malfoy ignored the revelry, as well as the fact that his cronies, Crabb and Goyle, had turned to small yellow canaries thanks to the Weasley twin's canary creams. Instead, he stared down at the letter from his father. It had arrived at noon, with the day's owl post. After a dozen readings, Draco still could not discover the meaning behind it.

     _Draco,_

_     You are to get Severus Snape out of the school and into the Forbidden Forest. Do this the night before you are to leave for holiday. Do not tell him of this letter. In fact, tell no one, not even your closest friends, and do not fail me._

_     Lucius_

What could his father be planning? Lucius Malfoy never did anything that did not in some way support the Dark Lord. Both he and Professor Snape were Death Eaters in the Master's service. Why the roundabout request for a meeting? Why the secrecy?

     Some instinct make the young Slytherin look up and across the room. Harry Potter sat at the Gryffindor table, eyes glued to the letter in Draco's hand. He made no effort to hide his suspicious thoughts.

     Draco folded the missive and put it away in an interior pocket of his dark green velvet robe. For a moment, bright green and pale blue eyes locked. One warned, the other challenged. Draco put on his best sneer, slid off the bench, and strolled out of the great room.

###

     "Harry?" Ron pulled his friend's attention off the Slytherin's retreating back. "What's wrong?"

     "Malfoy's up to something," Harry answered.

     Ron snorted. "Like that's anything new."

     Harry pushed the food around on his plate, his earlier hunger forgotten.

     "No, I mean . . . he was reading a piece of paper, maybe a letter. He looked . . . confused."

     "Malfoy, confused. Again, nothing new there."

     "He did get a letter today," Hermione said. "Delivered by that enormous eagle owl of his father's."

     Ron made a disgusted face. He stared at the apricot tart in his hands as though it made him queasy.

     "A message from Lucius Malfoy can't be good," he said. "If it were anybody but Draco, I'd feel for the sorry git."

     "Something about this isn't right." Harry shook his head and stared back toward the door, though Draco had long since disappeared. "I'll be keeping a close eye on our Slytherin friend for the next few days."

###

     "Warning: Addition of oil of Castor to the infusion will turn the salve red and produce a-" is that tonic or toxic? Toxic, must be. "-fume. In such an instance, the potion maker must disapparate immediately. If such is not possible, a spell of-" What is that word? Stupid wizard monks--why couldn't they write these scrolls clearly? "-will dissipate the fumes long enough for the wizard to retreat to a safe distance of no less than twenty meters."

Severus Snape set aside the ancient but puzzling scroll and stretched a kink out of his back. Five weeks had passed since his injuries but at times the skin around the scars still stretched. The shoulder wound in particular plagued him with occasional twinges, especially when he bumped the area against something.

     The former Death Eater pulled up his left sleeve and studied the mark, the sign of his former life and the symbol of his continued fight against the darkness. Despite the loud and frequent denials of Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, in the wizard press, Severus and key others knew the truth. Voldemort had returned. Just this week they'd received word of a dozen more murders and twice as many mysterious disappearances. The river of death had begun to spill out of the wizarding world into that of muggles, the non-magic inhabitants of England. Before long, even Fudge would have to acknowledge the return of darkness.

     A knock on his dungeon office door drew his attention. He rolled his sleeve down over the mark and settled back into his chair.

     "Enter."

     A pale blond head peered around the doorframe. Seeing no one but the Potions Master in the room, Draco stepped in and closed the door.

     "What is it, Mr. Malfoy? It's a bit late to be wandering the corridors."

     "It is that, Professor. Which is why I'm here."

     "Well, let's hear it then."

     "I thought you might like to know. I spotted Saint Potter out on the grounds, headed toward the Forbidden Forest."

     "That stupid- When was this?"

     "Five minutes ago."

     "Then he can't have gone far. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Now go back to your rooms and stay there."

     Severus threw on his heavy woolen cloak, checked that he had his wand, and stormed out the door. Intent on catching Harry Potter in another indiscretion, he failed to note the pale-haired shadow that followed in his wake.

###

     In the Gryffindor dorm, Harry Potter rubbed his aching scar and wished for the millionth time that Voldemort had not built the bridge between them that night he killed James and Lily Potter. Every time the Dark Lord felt particularly vicious, Harry's scar burned.

     The pain wasn't enough to indicate a direct violent act by Voldemort. An ache borne of the dark wizard's cruel thoughts was enough to keep Harry from relaxing into sleep.

     Unable to rest, he rose and dressed, intending to descend to the Gryffindor common room for a bit of study. An instant before he turned from the window beside his bed, movement caught the corner of his eye. As Harry watched, a familiar, black-haired form in a billowing cape strode across the unbroken snow toward the Forbidden Forest. Seconds behind him followed a smaller form; moonlight glistened off pale hair.

     Harry raced to his friend's bed and threw aside the drapes. "Ron. RON!"

     "_Hngh_, whazzid? H'ree?"

     Harry shook his shoulders, hard. "Ron, wake up!"

     "Hey, keep it down," Neville called from his bed. "We're trying to sleep."

     "Ron, are you _awake_!"

     Ron Weasley tried to throw off the insistent hands. "Bloody hell, _yes_. Who wouldn't be with you tryin' to shake my bones loose!"

     "Get dressed and go to Dumbledore. Tell him I just saw Snape headed toward the forest. Malfoy was following him. I'm going after them."

     "After them, are you _BARMY_?"

     "Harry," Neville called, "What's going on?"

     Harry ignored the other boy, intent on getting his friend to move. "We don't have time to argue. Hurry, Ron!"

     Before the sleep-befuddled redhead could acknowledge, Harry snatched up his wand and hurried down the tower steps, across the common room, and through the portrait exit.

###

     The instant Snape stepped into the snow-covered clearing, he realized he'd stepped into a trap.

     Five figures stood around the glade in a half-circle, all with hoods pulled up and wands drawn. The centermost and tallest looked beyond Snape and said, "Draco. You've done your job. Go back to the school. Say nothing."

     His presence discovered, the pale-haired youth stepped out of the woods. "But-"

     "Go-back-to-the-school."

     Snape stared at the confused teen, his expression a blend of pity and scorn. "Go, Mr. Malfoy. This isn't something you will want to see."

     After a final long moment of indecision, Draco stepped back into the shadows of the forest.

     "Hello, Severus."

     Snape gripped his wand tight. "Lucius."

     "In truth, I am somewhat surprised to see you. I hadn't thought you would fall so easily into my trap. Draco must be more persuasive than I'd imagined."

     "Not persuasive, exactly," Snape replied. "He simply knew which buttons to push in order to get the desired result."

     "Ahhhh," Lucius Malfoy crooned. "Something to do with Mr. Potter, no doubt."

     _Am I that easy to read? Worse still, manipulate, by a fifteen year-old boy?_ "No doubt."

     "You were extremely foolish to betray Lord Voldemort." Lucius twirled his wand between his fingers and stroked the wood with what, in any other person, might have been a loving touch. "Very foolish indeed."

     "More of a pleasure."

     "It pains me to say this. However, the Dark Lord bids me offer you one final chance to turn back. Rejoin our ranks. Accept your punishment and all your sins will be forgiven . . . eventually."

     "And if I refuse?"

     "Death."

     "Naturally. So, it will take all five of you to bring me down? Are you that afraid of me, Lucius? Am I that dangerous to your eyes?"

     "No danger whatsoever," the elder Malfoy hissed, a thin thread holding his rage at bay. "I simply wish to share the fun."

     Snape saw the wand on the farthest right rise and twirl. He ducked and rolled beneath the hex. A return volley of spells sent the five Death Eaters scrambling for cover.

     Light from a dozen spells and hexes flew across the clearing, glistening like tiny rainbows off the disturbed snow. Severus rolled and dodged, sometimes evading by the narrowest of margins. Though none of his return spells did any damage, they kept his enemies from overcoming him by sheer strength of numbers.

     From the scant cover of rock and tree, Severus heard rather than saw the events taking place on the far side of the clearing.

     A deep, familiar voice rose in warning, "Snape, behind you!"

     Severus wheeled and brought down a Death Eater set to strike him from behind. Thrown back, the man slammed against a tree. With a pained cry, he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

     "Stay out of this, Potter!"

     Draco Malfoy's voice proved that he hadn't left the area as ordered. The youths began their own exchange of hexes and spells, ignoring the battle that raged between the adults.

     Snape risked a look around his tree. A blast from Draco's wand sent Harry sailing into the bushes. Even as the pale youth crowed his victory, a Death Eater rose up and grabbed him around the throat.

     "Show yourself, traitor, or I'll blast this boy's head off his shoulders!"

     Draco pulled at the arm throttling his throat. Choking, he struggled to call out, "Father!"

     "You ignored my orders and got yourself into this mess." From his hiding place behind a stand of stone, Lucius ignored Draco's cries. "Get yourself out or you're no son of mine."

     "Step out, Snape, or the boy dies!"

     Draco struggled but could not break free. Behind him, he heard the Death Eater begin the killing curse. "Avad-" 

     _"Petrificus totalis!"_

The Death Eater's arms froze around Draco's shoulders. The spell cut off, mid-syllable. Draco wiggled his clothes free from the man's petrified grasp. He scrambled towards the scant protection of the forest, his retreat guarded by spells cast from Harry's wand.

     Two Death Eaters moved toward the boys, exploding the ground around their feet. Both teens stumbled and fell. Shaken but unhurt, they scrambled into the forest, their wands left behind on the ground.

     "Get back to the school!" Snape yelled to the boys.

     Caught up in the drama surrounding the teens, the Potions Master was an instant too slow noticing his own peril.

     _"Expelliarmus!"_

     Snape fought to hold onto his wand but the spell was too strong. The shaft of wood slipped from his grasp and smacked against Malfoy's outstretched palm.

     Struck from two sides by curses, Severus fell into the open. He ground his teeth in pain but refused to cry out.

     "Enough." Lucius called off further attacks. Convinced of victory, he stared down at Snape in triumph. "You will pay for betraying your lord."

     "He was never my 'lord,'" Snape bit back. "You've chosen the wrong side _again_, Malfoy. This time, you will fall with Voldemort."

     "Not, I think, before you. Goodbye, Severus. _Iatis septra raz!_"

     A vile yellow glaze bubbled around the tip of Malfoy's wand. Snape cried out and grabbed his left arm, where the Dark Mark lay. Tears of pain flooded his eyes. Through the moisture, he watched a thin streamer link the wand to his left forearm. The spell gathered and shot from his killer's wand.

     A form appeared above Snape, obscuring the light. A voice, young and male, cried out. The yellow glow struck someone other than its original target.

     To Snape, it appeared as through for an eternal instant, the figure stood crucified on a halo of light, the body outlined like a grotesque lunar eclipse. The sickly yellow vanished. The figure swayed then crumbled to an unmoving heap.

     Lucius Malfoy aimed his wand skyward and yelled, _"Voldesmorde!"_

The sign of the Dark Lord rocketed into the sky above the glade. Snape ignored all movement around the glade. Still pained by the curses, he crawled to the body and rolled it into his arms.

     Harry Potter's deathly white face turned toward him. The body lay lax and lifeless.

     "This is priceless!" Lucius crowed. "Tomorrow's headline will read, 'Death Eater Severus Snape Kills the Boy-Who-Lived'! When they read this, the rest of the wizarding world will clamor for the Dementors to give you a Kiss!"

     Malfoy gathered his followers and disappeared into the darkness. Within seconds, only Snape, Draco, and Harry remained beneath the vile green light of the Death Mark.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**TITLE**:    A Gryffindor Tried and True

**AUTHOR:**   Meercat

**LONGER SUMMARY: **Harry Potter dislikes Severus Snape. Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter. No one is more shocked than the Hogwarts Potion Master when Harry takes a potentially fatal spell to save the Death Eater turned Phoenix spy. Harry's sole hope of survival lies with Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and, of all people, Neville Longbottom.

Chapter 4 

A/N: I apologize if I get some terms wrong or goof on a spelling, but I've loaned all of my HP books to friends (I have to do my part in building a fan base for JKR, don't I?) and I don't have them for reference. Enjoy this new installment! R/R!!! Midnight Blue has over 2,500 reviews and I'm jealous!!! Meercat

     Silence could, in truth, be deafening.

     From his hiding place along the edge of the forest, Draco Malfoy stared around the clearing. A low hum filled his ears, legacy of the brief but vicious battle. He heard nothing else--no chirrup of insects, no twitter of birds disturbed in their roosts, no distant howl of wolves or roar of monsters. All around the glade, only silence.

     The Death Eaters were gone, even those wounded and petrified. Blast holes, shattered rocks, and smoldering tree trunks, upturned soil and destroyed greenery, proved it had been no illusion.

     A soft gasp penetrated the hum. Draco followed the sound to its source. His own arrested intake of air destroyed the last of the internal ringing.

     Severus Snape sat in the snow, his head bowed, a black-robed shadow beneath the canopy of trees. A figure lay across his legs, upper body clutched tight to the Potions Master's chest and head cradled in the bend of Snape's arm. Starlight touched shattered glasses, gray flesh, and a lightning shaped scar.

     Draco waited for some sign of movement. A twitch of a hand. A blink of an eye. A deep breath.

     Why didn't Potter wake up?

     A hard shiver shot up Malfoy's spine that had nothing whatsoever to do with the cold. He was unarmed, his wand lost somewhere in the pitted clearing. Was the danger really over? Snape looked in no shape to meet a second attack. Potter most certainly was no longer a factor. Any defense would lie with Draco.

     Malfoy hurried into the glade and rooted until he unearthed first Potter's wand then his own. Feeling safer with his magic restored, he moved across the clearing to kneel next to Snape.

     "P-professor?" Draco stared from the adult to the boy in his arms and back again. Potter still had not moved. "I-I-Is he-is h-he-"

     "Not yet." Draco shuddered as much from Snape's choice of words as from the resigned misery in his voice. He couldn't mean- "We must get him back to the school at once. Are you hurt?"

     Draco scanned himself before answering. "Potter got in a few light hexes but nothing painful or permanent."

     "And the Death Eater?"

     "He--he was about to-" Draco could not face the entire, awful truth of the night's events. How could his _own father_-- and to be saved by _Potter_-- "I'm fine."

     Snape, who had seen the entire drama unfold, asked for no further explanations. Instead, he said, "Gather up your wands. Follow me."

     Draco held up the two shafts of wood to prove he'd already performed the task. Snape smiled, reached out a watery arm, and patted Draco's shoulder.

     "Good lad."

     While Malfoy preened under the unexpected praise, Snape braced himself and lumbered to his feet, arms laden with Harry's unyielding weight. He swayed and toppled and would have fallen but for Draco's Quiddich-fast reflexes. The Slytherin student propped up his teacher until Snape recovered both balance and strength.

     The Potions Master settled his burden more securely in his arms. Breath, he spared, for more important matters.

     "Stay alert. Lucius took my wand. You stand as our only protection. They may try one last attack before we get out of the forest. Even if they do not, the forest itself has dangers of its own."

     Draco opened his mouth to voice an automatic denial. He closed it, the words unspoken. After this night, there was nothing that Draco would put beyond his f--Lucius Malfoy. Until his anger cooled and hurt eased, Draco would not think of the man as his father. Perhaps never again.

     Though he cared little for what happened to Saint Potter, Malfoy had a high liking and respect for his Head of House. For this reason, he did his best to guard their retreat from the Forbidden Forest. He zapped mischievous pixies intent on tripping the unsuspecting hikers and unraveled a web-trap set by a ten-legged, foot-long net spider.

     Both teacher and student released matching sighs of relief when the bright lights of Hogwarts came into view.

     "Run ahead," Snape wheezed, his voice fragile with fatigue. He was so cold, his breath no longer fogged on the air. "Alert Headmaster, nurse."

     Malfoy gave the forest a final search for danger then put away his wand and raced toward the school. As he ran, he wondered how he would be able to find the Headmaster's office. Unlike Potter, who had been in trouble numerous times, Draco had so far avoided such a summons.

     He decided to alert Madame Pomfrey and let her contact Dumbledore.

     As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Dumbledore, Pomfrey, and McGonagall waited for him on the front steps. Behind them rose Hagrid's great bulk.

     "Mr. Malfoy, what are you doing out at this time of night?" McGonagall demanded.

     Draco leaned forward on his knees and dragged air into his burning lungs. He waved towards the forest, where a single figure could be seen making a slow, weaving way towards them.

     "Professor Snape. Trap. Death Eaters. He's hurt. So is Potter."

     "Harry!" Three voices cried out--Hagrid's and two others.

     Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom wiggled between the teachers and raced across the green. Robes billowed out to reveal all three still clad in sleeping clothes and night slippers. They met Snape halfway. Hermione demanded to know what had happened even as Ron accused Snape and Malfoy of hurting his friend. Only the arrival of the other teachers stilled their cries.

     Poppy performed a brief scan. A frown marred her forehead as she said, "We need to get him to hospital wing right away. Hagrid, would you mind-"

     The half-giant reached to take the unconscious boy from Snape's care. Severus pulled back and clutched Harry closer.

     "I've carried him this far," Snape objected even as he swayed in place, "I'll carry him the rest of the way."

     "And if you fall down, what good's that to Harry then, eh?" Hagrid argued. "You're dead on your feet, Professor, an' you've done your part. Ye got him here for someone to help. Now let us do it. Let us help ye both."

     Snape stared at the unhumanly large hands held out ready to accept the boy. After a final struggle, Severus surrendered Harry into the giant's waiting arms.

     Hagrid hurried toward the hospital wing, followed closely by Madame Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, and the Gryffindor students. Within moments, only Dumbledore, Snape, and Malfoy remained.

     A part of Snape's detached mind wondered why he had not yet fallen. Tired as he was, surely it should have happened already. He looked left and right. It took several seconds and three repeat looks to reason it all out. Malfoy propped him on the right side. Albus supported him on the left.

     "Come, Severus." Albus Dumbledore's soft voice soothed the ache in his muscles and eased his internal weariness. The Headmaster's voice always made him think, _safe_. "Let's get you tended to as well, shall we? I suspect there is quite a story to be told about tonight's happenings. By everyone involved."

     Draco froze, caught by Dumbledore's intense, unreadable eyes. A hot blush flooded the boy's face. He looked away, unable to hold the gaze, and denied the band of guilt and shame around his heart. His part in the night's event's, however small, would come out. Would he be expelled? Imprisoned? If, or better still _when_, he returned home, what kind of reception would he receive?

     How would--or should--he respond to a father who would allow a Death Eater to threaten his only son with the Killing Curse?

     The trio approached the hospital wing in time to hear voices rise in argument. Minerva McGonagall's crisp Highland tones overrode the youthful voices of Harry's year mates. The Transfigurations Master stood with arms outstretched, blocking their way.

     "For the last time, no, you cannot go in. We'll let you know the moment there's any news."

     Albus leaned forward enough to catch Malfoy's eye. "Would you be so kind as to help Professor Snape to a bed? It appears as though Minerva could use my help."

     Draco accepted the task, along with a larger portion of Snape's weight. The student helped the Potions Master into the hospital, grateful to have Snape's form between him and the three Gryffindors. He was definitely in no mood to argue with the three "Gryffindorks."

     He helped Professor Snape to the nearest bed but wasn't surprised when the man bounded back to his feet and moved to where he could better see Potter and the activity around his bed. With everyone either busy examining the wounded or calming the distraught, Malfoy took advantage of the situation and slid into a corner, where he could see and hear but hopefully pass unnoticed.

     Dumbledore and McGonagall closed the hospital wing doors. In the corridor beyond, three young voices raised in final, vain objection. With the door secured, the school's two most powerful wizards hurried over to learn what they could.

     Harry Potter lay on the bed, his left hand buried deep between Hagrid's great palms. The giant knelt on the far side of the cot, tearful eyes locked on the boy's face. Madame Pomfrey examined him with touch and spell in an effort to judge his condition and affect a cure.

     "Severus?" McGonagall laid a hand on his shoulder. "What happened?"

     Snape wanted to shrug her off but found the touch too comforting. "He did something very brave, very stupid, very _GRYFFINDOR!"_

     "That doesn't help me treat him," Madame Pomfrey said. Her voice lashed like a whip. "Tell me what happened to him. _Precisely_."

     Snape ground his teeth as though he fought the urge to answer. The response came not from Snape, who stood beside the window, but from the other side of the room. Draco Malfoy stepped out of the dark corner into which he'd retreated.

     "He threw himself in front of a spell meant for Professor Snape."

     "A spell?" Albus pinned the youth with a concentrated gaze. "What spell?"

     Draco shook his head and shrugged. He wrapped his arms around his chest and braced his feet, an unconscious pose of defense. "I don't know. It wasn't one I'd ever heard before."

     "Severus?"

     A long moment passed before the Potions Master whispered, "_Iatis septra raz."_

     Dumbledore and McGonagall deflated with dismay. Albus closed his eyes and bowed his head. Minerva clutched her throat and sank down onto an empty bed, her face pale as candle wax.

     "I've never heard of it," Poppy said. "What does it do?"

     "It is a spell specifically designed to bond with dark magic." Snape pulled back his sleeve and thrust out his left arm to reveal Voldemort's mark. "Like this."

     Draco sneered in derision and argued, "He's safe enough then. The All-Mighty Harry Potter doesn't have a drop of dark magic in him."

     Dumbledore settled on the edge of Harry's bed. He leaned over and stroked the unconscious boy's forehead, baring the lightning shaped scar.

     "He has enough. Harry has been touched by Voldemort's power, not only once but several times. Had any other student been struck, they would have been nauseous, possibly dizzy, but little else. Harry, however-"

     The head of Gryffindor House leaped back to her feet and wrung her hands in worry. "Surely there must be an antidote!"

     Snape shook his head and looked up. His express was one they'd never seen before on the Potions Master's face--defeat.

     "Not anymore."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**TITLE**:    A Gryffindor Tried and True

**AUTHOR:**   Meercat

**LONGER SUMMARY: **Harry Potter dislikes Severus Snape. Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter. No one is more shocked than the Hogwarts Potion Master when Harry takes a potentially fatal spell to save the Death Eater turned Phoenix spy. Harry's sole hope of survival lies with Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and, of all people, Neville Longbottom.

Chapter 5 

     A soft moan broke the stunned silence.

     Dumbledore looked down in time to catch the first glimpse of emerald green eyes, befuddled by weariness and sleep. Harry blinked and squinted, unable to make sense of the blurry shapes around him.

     Albus picked up Harry's shattered glasses from the bedside table. He pulled out his wand, muttered _oculus reparo_ over the ovals, and set the repaired frames on their owner's nose.

     "There. Better?"

     Vision restored, Harry offered a soft smile of gratitude. "Yes, thanks."

     Potter blinked sleepily and greeted at each familiar face as it swam into view. In hospital, again? He tried to move his left hand only to find it firmly caught. He murmured a sleepy greeting to Hagrid, dimly aware of the tears that trekked down the half-giant's face. The moisture glistened in his curly beard and dripped onto the blanket next to their joined hands.

     Why was Hagrid crying? Had he gotten something in his eyes?

     Memory returned in a violent rush.

     "Professor Snape!"

     Potter shot up in bed and looked around. Pain exploded in every corner of his body. Spasms caught the muscles in his calves and drew his feet into unnatural positions. Harry grabbed his burning ribs, grimaced, and moaned but never stopped his frantic search.

     "Calm yourself, Potter." Snape stepped to the foot of the cot and into the boy's view. "I'm fine."

     Harry relaxed, but only marginally. "Malfoy?"

     "If you're referring to Malfoy the senior, he's long vanished, along with his faithful little band of Death Eaters. Malfoy the junior, however, is perfectly fine."

     Snape held out a hand in silent summons. Draco moved forward, his steps reluctant and dragging, until Potter could separate his Slytherin green robes from the shadows. Harry slumped to the mattress with a relieved rush of breath. Even Malfoy's characteristic curled lip and scornful, crinkled nose, as though he'd smelled something repulsive, did not diminish Harry's relief at seeing them both well.

     With his worries eased, he turned his attention to the pains in his body. Madame Pomfrey stepped up and gave him three drops of a dark blue liquid. The cramps diminished enough for him to settle more comfortably on the bed.

     "That was a very foolish thing you did, throwing yourself in the path of an unknown curse. One would have thought a Hogwarts fifth-year would be better trained than that."

     "Severus," Albus scolded.

     "It's true. As usual, he acted without a single thought as to the consequences."

     "And saved your life in the process. _Enough_, Severus. What's done is done. All we can do now is deal with the situation as it now stands."

     Robes billowing around him, Severus Snape paced the open floor near the foot of Potter's bed, muttering beneath his breath. Exhausted by injuries, untreated hexes, and heavy emotion, he slowed and stopped after only two laps.

     "By your expressions," Harry looked from one teacher to another, ending with Hagrid's miserable countenance, "the consequences in question can't be good."

     "No, Harry. Not good at all." The Headmaster straightened his spine, breathed deep, and said, "The curse is called--"

     "Albus."

     Dumbledore fell silent. He looked at Professor Snape in mild surprise. Something in the Potions Master's expression made him wave permission for Snape to take up the story.

     Severus Snape thrust his hands into the wide cuffs of his sleeves. He studied a point in the stone wall somewhere over Harry's head. His voice took on the singsong rhythms of someone reciting a classroom lecture with examples as points of reference.

     "Some five weeks ago, Voldemort set a trap that exposed my role as a spy in his ranks." He glanced at Harry, expecting to see surprise. He saw, instead, only polite interest. _So the boy had known all along, had he?_ "I managed to escape tho Death Eaters dispatched to capture me, though not without a few new scars to remember them by. Tonight was their first serious attempt to complete their mission.

     "The curse Lucius Malfoy cast at me, the one which you intercepted in true Gryffindor fashion, is called the Devourer's Curse. It requires an anchor in its target, in this case the taint of dark magic. This dark magic can either be the target's own or a mark placed there by a dark wizard. A mark such as this one." Snape bared his forearm only long enough to display the area in question. "Successfully cast, the curse eats away at the victim's inner store of magical energy, along with whatever internal organ it happens to reside in. Depending upon the level of dark magic, death can come within days, hours, or even minutes. And the end is never, ever, pleasant."

     Snape slid his gaze down the wall until it met Harry's. Bleak darkness glittered in their depths.

     "That is the end you saved me from. And, in the process, sentenced yourself to."

     Harry struggled to comprehend everything he'd been told. "But, Professor. I don't have any dark magic, my own _or_ acquired."

     Dumbledore sighed. "You have far less than Severus, true enough, which may buy us enough time to find an antidote. And, of course, Poppy will do all that she can. We'll summon others skilled in the arts of healing. Whatever we _can_ do, we _will_ do. But you have been touched by dark magic, Harry, enough to give this curse a foothold."

     "I don't understand. I'm not a dark wizard, and I don't have the Dark Mark. How could I-"

     Harry followed the Headmaster's somber gaze. His hand rose to the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. A single nod from Dumbledore confirmed his fears. Barely had Harry absorbed that bit of information than Dumbledore's exact words rushed back like a flood of ice water in his veins.

     "Wait a minute--'_find_ an antidote.' You mean there isn't one already?"

     "Not one we can use, I'm afraid."

     "But . . . that means . . ."

     "Harry." Albus wasn't sure he had the boy's attention but proceeded anyway. "Harry, your friends are outside. Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Longbottom. They are most anxious to see you. Would you like for us to let them in?"

     Though Harry's head moved up and down like a bobble-head toy, his eyes never lost their stunned glaze. A glance from Dumbledore to McGonagall saw her move to the door and swing it open.

     Hermione and Ron fell forward, as though they'd been leaning against the portal. They recovered their balance and hurried in before anyone could object. Hermione ran straight to Harry's side. She looked neither left nor right, sliding into the spot vacated by Hagrid. Ron caught sight of Malfoy standing in his corner. Weasley paused a moment to glare suspiciously at the blond boy before concern for his friend drove him forward. He sat in the space left for him by the Headmaster. Neville settled on an empty bed across the aisle.

     "Harry?" When he didn't respond to her call, Hermione cupped his limp hand and stroked his wrist. "Harry, can you hear me?"

     Potter stared into empty space, unresponsive.

     Weasley rounded on Malfoy. "You slimy, white-haired snake, what did you do to him?"

     "As if I had to do anything," Draco answered. "Others besides me want him dead."

     Snape cut Ron off before he could say another word. "Malfoy didn't cast this curse, Mr. Weasley. At least, not this _particular_ Malfoy."

     "Curse?" Hermione asked.

     "_Iatis septra raz."_

     Hermione paled. "The Devourer's Curse? No. Oh, Harry!"

     Every teacher winced and looked away. It made sense. Someone as studious as Hermione Granger would have found references to the curse in question.

     "You can cure him, right?" Ron looked first to Dumbledore (who looked down) then to McGonagall (who looked away) and finally, in desperation, to Snape (who stared stonily back). "Right?"

     "A recipe exists," Snape admitted, "but the activating ingredient comes from a plant called Dawn's Glory. No human has laid eyes on a living specimen in one hundred years."

     "Then use something else! This is Harry's _life_ we're talking about!"

     "Another ingredient will not work." Snape held onto his temper, reminding himself that Weasleys in general, and this one in particular, became highly emotional in stressful situations. "It's been tried. Only pollen from Dawn's Glory contains the properties necessary to counteract this curse."  
     "I'll scour the forest," Hagrid swore. Fresh tears poured down his face. "You just let me know what it looks like an' I'll find it. I'll tear the place down tree by tree if I have to, but I'll find what ye need."

     "It would do you no good," Snape said. "Dawn's Glory required intense and prolonged sunlight to flourish. You won't find that anywhere in the depths of an overgrown forest."

     "There has to be some, _somewhere_!"

     Albus sighed. "There hasn't been a known specimen in a hundred years."

     "If that's true--and a substitute antidote can't be found in time--" Hermione choked, unable to finish the sentence.

     Harry finished it for her. What once had been a blind stare now held grim recognition of his own mortality. "--I'm going to die."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**TITLE**:    A Gryffindor Tried and True

**AUTHOR:**   Meercat

**LONGER SUMMARY: **Harry Potter dislikes Severus Snape. Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter. No one is more shocked than the Hogwarts Potion Master when Harry takes a potentially fatal spell to save the Death Eater turned Phoenix spy. Harry's sole hope of survival lies with Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and, of all people, Neville Longbottom.

Chapter 6 

     Due to the holiday student exodus, the library felt distressingly empty. The chamber typically echoed with whispered voices, the flutter of turning pages, and the crackle of brittle parchment. Roaring fires in each of the great hearths provided heat and light, driving off the chill of winter that soaked into the stone walls.

     At a long wooden table set near the southern hearth, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom studied book after book, searching for anything that might help their friend.

     "I heard the Headmaster talking to Professor McGonagall," Ron reported. "They're going to send an owl to the Dursleys, letting them know what's happened to Harry."

     "Ahh, those Muggles should be whipped for the way they've treated their own flesh and blood," Hermione groused. "They don't deserve Harry. Your family is more kin to him than his own blood relatives."

     "Dumbledore seemed to think they might come here," Ron added, "the Dursleys that is, even though they hate anything to do with magic."

     "Why on earth would they do that?"

     "To gloat," Neville answered for Ron. "To watch it happen and to get whatever they can out of it."

     "Precisely," Ron agreed.

     "They won't get anything but a boot to their tails," Hermione predicted. "If Dumbledore doesn't see to that, Hagrid certainly will."

     "I sent Gran an owl this morning explaining why I'm not on the train," Neville said. "So far, she hasn't answered."

     Hermione refreshed the ink on her quill and resumed taking notes. "How do you think she'll react?"

     Neville shrugged. "With Gran, there's no telling."

     "I hate to say this," Hermione said in her this-is-for-your-own-good tone, "but your grandmother tends to wrap you in wool padding then gets upset when you can't do something."

     Longbottom flipped to a new page in the library copy of _Curses and Hexes Through the Ages_. "I s'pose."

     "Well, the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor," Hermione said. "It wouldn't have done that without a reason."

     "I've often wondered what that reason might be," Neville sighed.

     Before either friend could answer, a pale figure in dark green robes slid into view in front of their table. "Any luck?"

     "Go away, Malfoy," Ron fingered the grip of his wand, "before I spell you to eat slugs, and this time my wand's not broken."

     Draco held up his arms in mock surrender. "Oh, I'm so scared. Somebody please save me."

     "I thought you planned to go home for the holidays," Hermione commented, cutting off Ron's hard retort.

     Draco shrugged. "Changed my mind." He hooked a hip on the desk, picked up the nearest book, and leafed through it. "I take it you haven't found what you're looking for. If it's even in here to find."

     Hermione restrained Ron by grabbing his forearm. She studied Malfoy, puzzled. Something about the Slytherin boy was different. Draco should be dancing with joy at the mere thought of seeing Harry Potter brought down by a curse. A change in the eyes, faint but noticeable to anyone who looked closely. Where was the glint of triumph Draco should be feeling?

     "What is it you _really_ want, Draco?"

     Malfoy fidgeted in place. He dropped the book and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. He studied the wall art and read the titles of other texts stacked on the study table. He looked everywhere except at the Muggle-born witch.

     Hermione rose from her bench and moved around the table. She stopped only two feet away. Her voice softened to an almost friendly croon.

     "Draco?"

     The answer emerged as though yanked out with flaming pincers. "I want to help!"

     The three Gryffindors blinked. Eyes rounded in shock. Jaws dropped.

     "What?" Draco challenged their surprise. "Like you twits know as much about potions as I do. Admit it, I even outscore the Mud--everyone else in our class."

     "Not always," Hermione countered. "Why, Draco? Why do you want to help Harry?"

     The trademark sneer marred the otherwise handsome face. "What better joke on the mighty Saint Potter than to have his life saved by a Slytherin? By me?"

     "That's not your _real_ reason," Hermione pressed.

     "It's reason enough."

     "No. It isn't. Why do you want to help Harry Potter?"

     Draco struggled three more seconds then blurted out, "He saved my life." He waved toward the panoramic view out the nearest window, of open, snow-covered lawn, Hagrid's cottage, and the solid bulk of the Forbidden Forest. "Out there. In the forest. I don't like owing anyone, _especially_ Harry Potter. If I help cure him, we'll be even. We can hate each other as we've always done without anything more between us."

     Hermione nodded. "There's more to it, but we'll let that stand as your reason." Hermione held out her hand. "Draco Malfoy, we accept your offer."

     "We _do_?" Ron hissed as Draco accepted the handshake.

     "Good. Thanks." The word slipped out before Draco could rein it back. In an effort to hurry past the awkward moment, he pulled a roll of paper out of a pocket in his robe. "Professor Snape gave me this. It'll get us into the restricted section. Full access, even after hours."

     "Yes!"

     Hermione snatched the permit and raced off to find the librarian, Madame Pince. The three boys followed in her wake.

     Malfoy wasn't at all shocked to find his way blocked by a wall with red hair. He was, however, surprised to see Longbottom add his own hard glare to the warning.

     "I don't know what your game is, Malfoy," Weasley warned. "Maybe you're here for the reasons you say an' maybe you're not. Either way, I'll be watching you. If you do anything to hurt 'mione or Harry, or if you try to trip us up in finding a cure, there won't be any rule I won't break to make you pay for it."

     Malfoy studied the two boys and said, "For once, Weasley, I believe you."

     Having expected more of an argument, Ron fluttered a moment, regrouping. "Good. Okay. Just so's we understand each other."

     "Are we going to stand here staring at each other like a pair of wild animals in the forest," Draco asked, "or are we going to start hunting for the antidote? After all, I wouldn't want to be accused of tripping anyone up."

###

     Flames flared to life in wall sconces and standing torches. The four students blinked and looked around. As darkness descended on the school, they were no closer to an answer than they were at the start of their search.

     Madame Pince had broken one of her long-standing rules and allowed food in the library. The four students, deep in their research, dimly recalled her setting platters of sliced meat, bread, and cheese on the table before she disappeared to continue her own searches through books considered too dangerous even for the Restricted Section.

     "Maybe we should break off for a few minutes." Neville rubbed aching, bloodshot eyes and yawned. "We can go see how Harry's going."

     "Sounds good." Ron stretched. A triple crack realigned his spine. He relaxed again with a sigh of relief. "Y'know, we've been at this all day, and I still don't know what Dawn's Glory looks like. Plenty of descriptions and a ton of things that could be done with it, but no pictures."

     "I saw one," Hermione rustled through her stack to find the right book then thumbed through the pages until she found the one in question. "Here."

     Ron studied the image and said, "Nice."

     His own curiosity piqued, Malfoy twisted until he, too, could see the image. The plant, with its spade-shaped purple leaves and black, vine-like stems, lay flat to the ground for maximum exposure to sunlight. According to the accompanying legend, it bloomed five times a year, sometimes six in warmer climates. The orchid-shaped flowers grew in clusters of three, six flowers on each stalk, dangling on the end of a central stem.

     A choking sound rose from Neville's throat. Between one blink and another, the book disappeared from in front of Hermione and Ron to reappear in Longbottom's trembling hands.

     "Hey!" Ron complained. "I was looking at that."

     "Neville? What is it?"

     Longbottom traced the drawing of the flower. His fingertip trembled harder with every second. He outlined the tiny blue bud and ran his finger down the sword-like central petal.

     "It can't be. It just can't be." The boy stared at the drawing. His mouth worked but no further sound emerged.

     "Neville?" Ron called. "Mate, what's wrong?"

     Longbottom blinked four times and shuddered. His eyes widened and his jaw fell even further. He slammed the book closed, dropped it to the desktop, and threw himself away from the table. 

     "Neville!" Hermione called after him. The boy ran on without an instant's pause. "Let's go see what's going on."

     "Let him go," Ron said.

     "He's onto something." Hermione grabbed Ron's arm and tugged him to his feet. "Come on!"

     The pair raced from the room, hot on Longbottom's heels.

     "Damn and blast. They're off and running." Draco sighed and climbed off the bench. "As usual."

     Driven by curiosity, the Slytherin raced to catch up.

###

     Neville Longbottom ran through the corridors as though chased by the hounds of hell--or worse still, Professor Snape. A stitch grabbed his side. Every breath scalded his throat. He barely had wind enough to gasp out the password to the Fat Lady whose portrait guarded the entrance to the Gryffindor dormitory.

     Far behind him, Hermione and Ron called for him to wait, but he didn't stop. He had to check. Before he said anything, he had to be sure.

     He threw himself into his room and rooted beneath his bed. Neville pulled out his keepsake box, unlocked and threw open the lid, and pulled out the roll of linen. He laid it on the floor and unrolled it until he uncovered a single faded flower, the vivid royal blue still faintly visible. The central pedal, though bent, still held its distinctive sword shape.

     He abandoned the rest of the items, even left his chest open. Neville raced down the stairs, the pressed bloom cupped between his hands. He appeared in the common room even as Hermione and Ron stepped in from the outside.

     "Neville, what's going on? Have you-"

     Longbottom thrust the flower before him, almost hitting Granger's nose. "Is this it, Hermione? Is this Dawn's Glory?"

     Hermione pulled back far enough to see the item without crossing her eyes.

     Her shocked expression was answer enough. Before she could gasp out, "Where did you get that?" he was through the portrait hole and gone again.

###

     Ron and Hermione shared a brief glance of disbelief then pelted after him. Malfoy met them at the main junction and pointed down the left-hand corridor.

     "If you're looking for Longbottom, he went that way."

     "Come on!" Ron yelled. "We can't lose him."

     "Why are we chasing after Longbottom?"

     Hermione called back over her shoulder, "He has a bloom from Dawn's Glory!"

     "Bloody hell!" Malfoy muttered and ran faster.

     The three of them caught fractured glimpses of Neville far ahead of them. They stayed just within sight but could never catch up.

     "Where's he going?" Ron gasped around a stitch in his side. "He's not headed for the hospital."

     "He's headed towards the dungeons," Malfoy reckoned. "Towards Professor Snape's office."

     Ron stumbled but kept running. "_Neville_ is going to see _PROFESSOR SNAPE_? The world's come to an end, and no mistake!"

     "I know a shortcut." Draco waved them up a side corridor. "This way."

     Ron and Hermione hesitated only a moment before following the Slytherin.

###

     Severus threw away still one more useless scrap of paper. He'd known going into his search that the odds were against him. The only remedy for the Devourer's Curse required pollen from a plant not seen on earth in one hundred years. Few wizards alive today, with exceptions such as Albus Dumbledore, remembered ever seeing Dawn's Glory in full bloom. Snape himself had seen the plants only in books and drawings.

     When young Mr. Malfoy had asked for the _carte blanche_ library permit, he'd agreed. The activity would give the worried students something to do besides sit around and watch their friend die. It would also keep them out of everyone's way--himself and Poppy most especially.

     In all honesty, he searched his own private library for precisely the same reason. He didn't want to sit around hospital and watch the son of James Potter waste away to nothing.

     The door to his chamber banged open. Without even so much as a knock, Neville Longbottom lurched into the room. The boy clutched walls, pillars, and desks for support until he collapsed in front of Snape's enormous black oak desk.

     "Longbottom--What in Merlin's name--"

     Snape moved to help the boy to his feet only to step back when Longbottom thrust something into the space between them. The Potions Master heard a raspy voice, presumably Longbottom's, whisper, "I found it. I found it."

     Severus accepted the item before truly looking at it. When his mind realized what lay in his palm, he leaned against his desk and muttered a surprised curse. He stared at the faded, pressed blossom. He touched it with the tip of his finger. It was real.

     His own voice raspy soft, he asked, "Where did you get this?"

     "That day I got lost," Longbottom gasped. His skin glistened with rivers of sweat. Color flushed his face, and he looked ready to faint. "I found a room. Plants--everywhere. That was--one of them. Found it--caught in my clothes. Saved it--as a memento."

     "This room--can you find it again?"

     Neville swallowed once and nodded.

     "Where is it? Never mind. Just answer me this: Were there more of these plants?"

     "Yes, sir." Neville's head bobbed up and down. "Dozens--maybe even hundreds more--just like it."

     "Hundreds . . . My god, Longbottom, you may just have saved Harry Potter's life. We need to find the Headmaster right away."

     Snape strode out of his office, Longbottom's robes in one hand, the precious bloom in the other. He breezed past three stumbling, gasping students without so much as a glance in their direction.

     "Bloody hell, will he ever slow down?" Malfoy grumbled but forced his aching legs to resume the chase.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**TITLE**:    A Gryffindor Tried and True

**AUTHOR:**   Meercat

**LONGER SUMMARY: **Harry Potter dislikes Severus Snape. Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter. No one is more shocked than the Hogwarts Potion Master when Harry takes a potentially fatal spell to save the Death Eater turned Phoenix spy. Harry's sole hope of survival lies with Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and, of all people, Neville Longbottom.

Chapter 7 

     Madame Pomfrey rubbed her sore neck and settled back in her chair. In the nearby bed, her patient moaned and shifted. Even her strongest medical potions could not entirely ease his discomfort.

     Torches and sconces cast long shadows around the chamber, giving the hospital wing a decidedly gothic feel. Many's the night she watched over a patient, refusing to release their care to anyone else. How many of those times over the past five years had her patient been this same boy? Poppy had lost count.

     "Madame Pomfrey?"

     "Yes, Harry?"

     "Could I have some water?" The voice tried to sound strong.

     "Of course, dear."

     Poppy rose and stepped to the side table. A pitcher sat on a tray, condensation beading on its ceramic surface. As she poured clear water into a glass, she slipped in a strong, tasteless sleeping potion.

     "There you are."

     The mediwitch held the glass and straw steady for him to drink his fill. It took time, but he emptied it down to the last drop. As Poppy set the empty glass back on the table, Harry looked around the otherwise empty hospital wing.

     "Ron? Hermione?"

     "The last I heard," Poppy said as she sat on the side of his bed, "they were in the library, scouring the books for any clues to an alternate cure. I understand they have even pulled Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Malfoy into the search."

     Harry grinned. "'mione's marshalling her forces, eh?"

     Poppy smothered a laugh. "Precisely." Seeing the glazed, drugged sheen in his eyes, she straightened a tiny wrinkle in the blanket and said, "Close your eyes and rest. Your friends will be by to see you soon enough."

     Harry moved his head in what might have been a nod. His eyelids bounced three times before settling closed. His breath evened out into sleep. A tiny frown, proof of the pain that even her strongest potions could not erase, creased his face.

     The mediwitch wiped a tear from her cheek.

     He was so young. So very young.

###

     A bright fire burned in the Headmaster's hearth. Its light dispelled the evening twilight even as heat chased away the winter chill. On his perch behind the desk, Fawkes the phoenix chattered to himself as he idly studied the strange gathering of people who had come to visit.

     On the walls, portraits of former headmasters either slumbered or listened in silence.

     Albus Dumbledore stared over his glass frames. The ancient wizard's expression was unusually somber. Silent figures ranged around the room, waiting for him to set the tone and pace. Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley--and Draco Malfoy?--sat in a half circle, occupying magically transformed chairs. Severus Snape stood in front of the door, his arms across his chest as though blocking the only route of escape.

     Dumbledore did his best to ease Longbottom's fears with a smile and nod.

     "Professor Snape tells me a most remarkable story, Mr. Longbottom." He motioned to the faded blossom on the round table between them. Around it sat a silver tea service, delicate china cups, and an untouched tray of scones. "The proof appears to lie before us. Only the specific details remain in shadow."

     "In other words," Snape said, "explain how you, of all people, managed to find this private atrium."

     Albus aimed an intense glance toward the Potions Master, bidding him to be silent. Snape grimaced but said no more.

     "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Longbottom."

     Neville looked from face to face, anxious for any hint of support. Finding it in Hermione and Ron's bright smiles and in Dumbledore's gentle eyes, he drew in a deep breath, held it a moment, the began his tale.

     "That day I--I got lost. I was running late for class-"

     "As always."

     "Be silent, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore whispered to the Slytherin boy seated on his other side.

     Neville blushed and studied his trembling hands. Albus reached over and rested his palm across them, stilling their tremors.

     "Go ahead, son. You were late?"

     "I was running, juggling my book bag, wasn't really watching where I was going. Peeves had knocked over a suit of armor. I ran around the corner too fast to stop. I tripped and fell into the wall. Next thing I knew I was on the other side and couldn't figure out how to make the hidden door open again. I tried for ages but couldn't find the switch."

     Hermione rubbed his shoulder. "It's all right, Neville. Tell us what happened next."

     "There was a long corridor. Twisting, dark. I lit my wand and started to walk, hoping to find another way out. Figures and statues lined the way, either huge ones standing on platforms or smaller ones hidden in wall niches. Some of them were shaped like people but most looked like monsters. There were traps--the floor would tip beneath my feet, and I almost got skewered by a spear!"

     Several breaths caught in a unison gasp. The Headmaster in particular found the news of deadly traps in a school most disturbing. Even Malfoy stared in rapt attention, as caught up in the tale as everyone else.

     "I walked for what felt like hours until I finally came to a door. When I opened it, there was a room, enormous, so big I couldn't see the other side. The ceiling was glass, not like the greenhouses but a solid sheet of unbroken glass shaped in a dome. There were walkways of crushed shell and raised beds filled with millions of plants as far as I could see. Some grew low to the ground. Some grew in clumps. Some of the trees were hundreds of feet tall! There were animals in there, too. Birds and insects. I saw one--a huge cat. It was stalking me. I climbed up onto one of the beds, the one filled with roses. I hoped to hide behind the thorns until I could think of a good spell to cast. Suddenly the whole room shimmered. The growing beds shifted, shuffling themselves like the pasteboards in a deck of cards."

     "And the cat?" Albus asked.

     "I went with one bed, the cat went with another. I never saw it again."

     The Headmaster pointed to the bloom from Dawn's Glory.    "How did you come across this?"

     It was in the last bed I climbed into. It stood higher than the others. I had to climb a ladder on the side to get up to the top. I hoped to see a way out from up there."

     "And could you?"

     Neville shook his head. "No sir. I climbed back down and was about to move on when the beds shifted again and put me next to the wall. I lost my balance and fell back. The wall gave way and I slid down a long, twisting shaft. I landed on the ground at Professor Snape's feet."

     "My young friend," Dumbledore patted Neville's shoulder, "you had quite an adventure."

     "Dawn's Glory still exists," Draco whispered, as though convincing himself of the miracle.

     Ron's face lit with hope. "We can save Harry!"

     "What now, Headmaster?" Snape asked.

     "There's only one thing to do. We must find that room, locate the correct growing bed, and harvest the blossoms. No time can be wasted. We must move swiftly if we are to save Harry Potter's life."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**TITLE**:    A Gryffindor Tried and True

**AUTHOR:**   Meercat

**LONGER SUMMARY: **Harry Potter dislikes Severus Snape. Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter. No one is more shocked than the Hogwarts Potion Master when Harry takes a potentially fatal spell to save the Death Eater turned Phoenix spy. Harry's sole hope of survival lies with Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and, of all people, Neville Longbottom.

Chapter 8 

     "Harry? Harry, can you hear me?"

     The call came from far away, pulling him from dreams of dark shadow and pain. He fought his way out, anchoring himself to the voice as sailors once did the lifesaving beams from a lighthouse. His nose tingled with fragrant healing herbs, the tang mingling with the rose scent Madame Pomfrey used to refresh the hospital linens.

     Harry Potter opened pasty eyes to see a vague, red-capped blur. The blur moved, accompanied by the rustle of robes against cloth. Glass frames settled across the bridge of his nose. He blinked twice; the blur snapped into focus.

     "R-Ron." He coughed, a dry, raspy noise.

     "Right here, Harry. Thirsty?" At his weak nod, Ron pressed a straw to Harry's cracked lips. "Here you go. Better then? How are you feeling?"

     Cool water soothed the ache in his throat. "Hurzz."

     Ron grimaced. "I know. But we have some news that'll make you feel better. Remember back when Neville got lost for a whole day? He stumbled on a room full of plants. One of them's what we need to make the antidote to this curse. It won't be long before you'll be up and about again."

     Harry looked from one face to another and struggled to understand. Ron's face glowed with hope. Neville shuffled in place, his expression a blend of fear and excitement. Snape wore his typical mask--half-sneer, half-grimace, yet even his eyes held a spark of confidence.

     Could it be true? He wanted so desperately to believe.

     A bone-deep chill rattled his bones. Every shudder hitched the aches in his muscles and bones a few notches higher. Everything hurt, even his skin.

     Through chattering teeth, Harry whispered, "Prof'sor?"

     Severus Snape shifted his weight and looked around, as though seeking an escape. Finding none, he sighed and answered, "Mr. Weasley is correct. If all goes well, we should have an antidote by this time tomorrow."

     Ron's hand slid beneath Harry's and squeezed. "Go back to sleep, mate. I'm here."

     The shadow of a smile flickered across Harry's face. Languid warmth flowed from their joined hands to chase away the chill. He drifted back to sleep, comforted by the contact.

###

     Hermione dropped two stuffed backpacks on the empty bed next to Harry's. "I've put together some packs for us."

     Snape opened the first bag and examined its contents. Spare clothing and coils of bandages padded bottles of powders, herbs, potions, and elixirs. The second bag held a dozen thin candles, food, gardening tools, and empty containers to hold the harvested blooms. A coil of rope hung on one bag, a collapsible shovel on the other.

     "You seem to have thought of everything," the Potions Master said at last, holding up a size two pewter pot, "including a variation of the kitchen sink."

     Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and said, "If we need it, we might not be able to come back and get it."

     "True enough." Snape buckled the second bag closed and shouldered both. "Very well then. Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Longbottom. Whenever you're ready."

     Neville swallowed hard, nodded, and turned toward to door.

     "I'm not going."

     Every eye turned toward Ron Weasley. He stood on the far side of Harry's bed, his left hand resting on his friend's shoulder. He stared back without apology, an uncharacteristically mature light in his eyes.

     "Not going?" Hermione repeated. Hurt and disbelief clouded her expression. "Why?"

     "I wouldn't recognize the right plant if I buried my head in a basket full of it. I suck as Potions, you're much better with spells than I am, and Neville's going as the guide. There's not a lot for me to do except get in the way." Ron waved to the room at large and his unconscious friend in particular. Even in sleep, Harry held tight to Ron's right hand. "But there is something I can do here."

     "And what might that be, young Weasley?" Snape asked.

     Ron met the former Death Eater's gaze without flinching. "The Headmaster's sent an owl to the Dursleys, Harry's Muggle guardians. They sent back saying they want to come here. From what I've seen of them and from the stories Harry's told me, he's going to need someone here. Someone who'll look out for him. That someone is me."

     Severus Snape stared on the youngest Weasley boy. One eyebrow arched over dark eyes.

     "Wisdom . . . from a Weasley. Whoever would have known?"

     Hermione bristled a moment on her friend's behalf then fell into heavy thought. The professor's words were harsh, biting, yet something in his tone spoke of grudging respect.

     "Very well then. We are now a party of three." Snape stepped up to the bedside and stared down at his most famous pupil. Almost against his will, his fingers brushed the sweat-damp hair from the boy's forehead. "Do your best for him, won't you, Mr. Weasley? As you say, he often needs someone to 'look out for him'."

     Ron pulled out his wand and laid it on the bed close to hand. "No one, Wizard or Muggle, will get near him to hurt him. Not while I'm here."

     "I do believe you're right."

     Snape nodded once, spun around in a swirl of black cloak, and ushered his small party out of the room.

     Albus Dumbledore joined them in the corridor outside the hospital wing. The group walked in silence until they came to the intersection of corridors where Neville Longbottom first began his adventure.

     Dumbledore pointed to a suit of armor on a granite pedestal. "Is this the armor Peeves knocked over?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "I take it, then, this is the wall you fell into?" He pointed to the far wall.

     Neville nodded once more.

     Severus Snape examined the stone. He marveled at the intricate fit of the blocks--only one who knew for certain a door lay beyond would see the telltale cracks that marked a hidden entrance. He judged Longbottom's height, plotted where the boy might hit the wall, and found a small knot of stone half-hidden behind another suit of armor. On the surface was carved the head and beak of a bird.

     "It would seem," Snape said as he turned back to his companions, "that Salazar Slytherin was not the only Founding Member to leave behind a hidden chamber."

     Dumbledore took a startled step forward. "What?"

     "If I am not mistaken," Snape indicated the raven-shaped projection of stone, "this would indicate the hand of Rowena Ravenclaw in the creation of this door, if not the atrium itself."

     Snape pressed the raven's head. With a growl of long-unused hinges, the door swung open. Stone ground against stone. The grating sound shot straight to the root of every tooth.

     "If anyone wants to turn back," Snape said, "now would be the time."

     Neither Longbottom nor Granger replied. Snape sighed, lit his wand, and stepped into the black opening. Hermione and Neville shared a last look with the Headmaster then followed.

     As the stone slid back into place, Albus Dumbledore whispered, "Good luck."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 

     The stone door closed behind them and cut off all light. Not even a sliver of illumination remained. The air closed in, tight and unmoving.

     Neville Longbottom shivered and quaked. His breath rested like stones at the bottom or his lungs and made his chest ache. Darkness closed in like a cocoon of black wool. He smothered, gasping for air.

     He was part of an adventure. How had that happened? His solo trip through the maze had been terrifying enough. With _Professor Snape_ along--he should never have said a word. He could be home sharing the holidays with his Gran instead of traipsing through scary black passageways facing who-knows-what kind of dangers.

     Hot shame burned his cheeks. A memory rose in his mind, of Harry in a hospital bed, fighting to hide his pain. For the first time, Harry Potter needed help from Neville Longbottom. How could he think about himself at a time like this?

     Neville jumped when the Potions Master's voice rose out of the darkness, "_Lumos."_

     Soft ivory light flared from the tip of Snape's wand. A small circle of corridor leaped out of the darkness. A moment later, Hermione lit her wand and expanded the ring.

     Neville gripped his wand tight and whispered, "_Lumos._"

     Under the combined illumination, the corridor came into full detail as far as the first right bend. Stone columns lined both sides of a passage ten feet wide and twice that in height. Relief engravings banded the center third of each granite pillar with swirls of ivy, fans of delicate ferns, and a dozen varieties of flower in different stages of bloom.

     At the edge of the light stood a pedestal, on top of which rested a polished acacia-wood raven in flight. Diamonds embedded in the black wood served as eyes. Each faceted gem bent the light into brilliant rainbows.

     "Stay close," Snape said.

     The shuffle and scrape of their steps echoed around them. On the floor could be seen a single set of footprints, left in the dust by Neville during his first accidental visit. Their passage kicked up a cloud of fine powder that irritated the eyes and clogged the nose. Neville sneezed; the noise rebounded and amplified until they all covered their ears in protest.

     As the sound at last died away, Snape paused at the right bend to study the way ahead. More columns lined the walls, though the width had narrowed to six feet. Black squares marked the location of side passageways. Firepots embossed with the Hogwarts crest, identical to those in the rest of the castle, flared to life, provided sufficient light.

     "Here's your chance to prove your worth, Mr. Longbottom. Which way?"

     "I did try a few of these side hallways," Neville pointed to several of the black spaces, "but they ended either at a locked door or a dead end."

     A dark eyebrow rose. "Should I assume you at least _tried_ to open the doors?"

     "Yes, sir." Longbottom cringed. "None of the unlocking spells worked."

     "So basically the only way lies straight ahead."

     "Yes, Professor."

     "Very well. Follow me, but bear in mind that Mr. Potter is dying. Every second is critical. Do not fall behind because I will not wait for you."

     Snape moved forward at a brisk pace. Hermione and Neville were forced to take three hopping steps to one of his longer strides. As they passed the first of the branch passages, a thin finger of wind tickled their cheeks, a cross-draft from an unidentified source. The faintest scents of yeast and oats hinted that the path might at some point pass close to the kitchens.

     Unaccustomed to exertion, Neville struggled for enough breath to raise his voice over the click of their heels against stone. "Sir-"

     Snape moved further ahead. His wider steps easily outstripped his younger, smaller companions.

     "Keep up, Mr. Longbottom. We don't have time to look for you if you wander off down a side corridor."

     "But, _Professor!_"

     Neville grabbed the back of Hermione's robes. He dragged her to a halt even as the floor disappeared beneath the Potions Master's feet. With a swirl of billowing cloth, Severus Snape vanished into a black pit.

     Snape's startled yell drowned out Neville's frantic, "_Wingardium leviosa!_"

     Sweat beaded across Longbottom's forehead as he fought to hold the spell. The weight of a full-grown man was far harder to maintain in midair than the feather he'd trained with in his first year.

     Hermione raised her own wand. "Hold on. I'll cast a weight-reducing spell. Be ready for the shift."

     Before Longbottom could nod, the young witch cast the spell. The change in weight threw off the dynamics of the levitation--Snape bobbed straight up like a cork in a turbulent sea. Neville corrected in time to keep the Potions Master from slamming into the ceiling. Even so, the professor's greasy hair left a shiny spot on the gray stone.

     Hermione grabbed Snape's trouser leg and pulled him back over solid floor. Neville released the spell with a gusty sigh of relief.

     Severus staggered as his feet touched solid ground. He breathed deep, straightened his spine, and smoothed his ebony robes. Despite his usual veneer of detachment, his skin had paled several shades closer to white.

     "Mr. Longbottom."

     "He tried to warn you, Professor," Hermione leapt to her friend's defense, to the point of placing her body between the teenager and the Potions Master, "but you wouldn't listen."

     "Hermione," Neville whispered as he twitched her sleeve, "maybe you shouldn't-"

     "No," Snape held up a silencing hand, "she is correct. I failed to remember your previous experience and have not taken your knowledge into account. Precisely how many of these traps might we expect to encounter before we reach the atrium?"

     Neville did a fast mental count. "Not including this one, there are three triggers that release darts or spears, a falling block that cuts you off from going back the way you came, fire jets, oh, and an ice river. I had to transfigure one of my notebooks into a pair of skates to get across that last."

     Snape gazed at Neville, an odd light in his eyes. His voice lacked much of its customary sarcasm when he said, "You made it through this maze entirely on your own? I am impressed."

     "You could thank him, you know," Hermione said. "After all, he did save your life."

     "I could, yes. But I'm not going to. He did no more than I would have done. As you would do. That is, after all, what being part of a team is about?" He tilted his head toward her as though challenging her to argue the point.

     She answered with a stubborn stance, arms crossed over her midriff, wand jutting out toward the left. "A thank you still would not hurt."

     Snape looked away. After several moments' struggle that included some uncomfortable foot shuffling, he finally said, "There is only thing I might thank one of you for. Could you . . ."

     "Yes, Professor Snape?"

     "I . . . when the floor gave way, I . . . dropped my wand. Would . . . would one of you . . . recover it by casting _Accio_?"

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 

      Ron sighed and shifted to take pressure off a sore spot on his right hip. He occupied a padded recliner borrowed from Madame Pomfrey's personal quarters and set beside Harry's bed. After four hours of bedside vigil, he had yet to release his best friend's hand. Every few minutes he would slip a handkerchief between their palms to absorb the fever-generated perspiration.

      On the other side of the room, Madame Pomfrey readied the next batch of potions, placing each individual-dose bottle on a silver tray and occasionally glancing in their direction. On the few instances when her eyes met Ron's, the mediwitch would offer a smile of support. However, she hadn't spoken to Ron since Hermione, Neville, and Professor Snape left to find the hidden garden.

      Somewhere far off in the castle a clock chimed the hour. Ron confirmed the time on his watch--1:00 a.m. 

      The exhausted fifth year yawned and shifted again. He dug the heel of his free hand into his eyes. The orbs felt like lumps of coal coated with sand.

      A hand touched his shoulder. Startled, Ron turned but relaxed to see Albus Dumbledore smiling down on him. The old wizard's velvet robes, the shade of burnished copper, shimmered like fresh-minted coins. A cap-pin decorated the side of a matching peaked hat. The center stone, an oval slice of amber the size of an egg, harvested the faint light of both moon and torches.

      The headmaster studied Ron's face for a long moment.

      "Your loyalty does you credit, my young friend," Albus whispered, "but Harry would not want you to exhaust yourself on his account. You should get what rest you can. If you don't wish to go to the Gryffindor tower, I'm sure Poppy would let you use one of the empty beds."

      "I'm all right, Professor. Thanks. It wouldn't really matter where I laid down. I won't be able to sleep until I know Harry's on the mend."

      A shadow of concern creased Dumbledore's forehead. "We have no way of knowing how long it will take Severus and the others to navigate the maze, find the room, gather the blossoms, and get out again. It might well be a full day, perhaps two."

      Ron shrugged. "I'll wait."

      Dumbledore studied him over the top rim of his spectacles, sighed, and nodded. "Very well then. My sole advice is to pace yourself. You will do Harry no good if you needlessly exhaust yourself."

      "Yes, sir. Thank you, Professor."

      The headmaster turned and left the hospital wing, his shoulders stooped and his steps heavy. Ron considered, very briefly, taking the old wizard's advice. His body yearned most desperately for a soft mattress to ease the aches that worried almost every muscle in his body. He considered it, and dismissed it once again. Harry would never leave him. Hence, he would not leave Harry.

      "He's right."

      The hand beneath Ron's palm twitched. Fingers curled tight around his own. Ron smiled to see his friend's brilliant green eyes appear beneath heavy eyelids.

      "Hiya, Harry. Feeling better?"

      Harry tried to shrug but aborted the move with a pained grunt.

      "I've been better." He made a chuffing sound, possibly a laugh. "Been worse, too."

      "Like when Gilderoy Lockhart tried to fix your broken arm and made your bones disappear instead."

      "That one did come to mind, yeah." Harry's gaze sharpened. "Dumbledore's right. You need to rest. You look terrible. Not to mention very uncomfortable."

      "I'm fine right here."

      "Ron-"

      "I'm not budging so you might as well stop arguing. At this point, I'm a bloody sight more stubborn than you."

      After a final grumble of protest, Harry gave in with a weary smile. "I'll admit it. I'm glad you're here." His eyes clouded. "Ron, it hurts and I'm scared, more scared than I've ever been in my entire life."

      Ron squeezed Harry's hand. "More scared than when you fought You-Know-Who?"

      "With Voldemort, I could fight back. Most of the time, anyway. With this . . . there's nothing I can do but lie here and wait, and pray they find the room and get back in time to make the antidote."

      "They'll do it. I mean, this is Hermione we're talking about. And Snape--he'll make good and damn sure they get back in time just so he can hold it over your head for the rest of your student life."

      Harry tried hard not to laugh, knowing the movement would awaken greater pain throughout his body. The light-hearted banter did more to raise his spirits than any of Poppy's foul-tasting potions, palliatives, and elixirs.

      "Speaking of Hermione," Harry asked, "how long have they been gone?"

      "A little over four hours."

      Harry looked up at the windows that encircled the far wall. Indirect moonlight glistened off piles of snow gathered along the sills. Whisps of silver-blue cloud scudded like restless ghosts across the winter night's sky. As he watched, an owl flew past the window, the spoils of a successful hunt clutched in its talons.

      He shivered and clutched his blankets tighter around his throat.

      "It's late?" Harry asked.

      "Past one o'clock."

      "You should rest."

      Ron rolled his eyes and heaved a melodramatic sigh. "We've been through this already."

      "I know. Just thought I'd mention it one more time in case you changed your mind."

      "Not ruddy likely, mate."

      "Ron?"

      "Yeah?"

      "Thank you."

###

      The clock on the mantle marked straight up one a.m. Dormant shadows dotted the Slytherin common room, broken only by the hearty blaze that filled the hearth. Where the fire's golden glow didn't touch, a phosphorescent green shimmer from lake waters beyond the transparent walls threw furniture and decorations in stark relief. Draco Malfoy reclined on one of two black leather sofas and stared into the flames. He thought and he waited, brooding and impatient.

      The letter from his father had arrived an hour after Neville Longbottom's surprise revelation. The message was succinct, short, and brutal, with no room for defiance. Draco was to light a fire in the Slytherin common room at one o'clock. He was to wait before it, alone and ready to accept his father's instructions.

      Anger and hurt raged in his soul. A lifetime of training, of unquestioning obedience, warred with the unfairness of it all. On several occasions he laid the blame for his turmoil on Harry Potter. On others, he blamed Severus Snape. The whole sordid mess began when the Potions Master betrayed Lord Voldemort. Snape should be the one to end it, not 15-year-old Draco Malfoy.

      What could his father want him to do? Draco certainly would not be able to lure the Head of Slytherin House into another trap, nor could Lucius ask him to do anything directly against the former Death Eater. The idea was ridiculous. Snape would hex him into old age!

      The flames morphed into a face--hard, merciless, and very familiar. Draco sat up and faced the hearth.

      Lucius Malfoy wasted no time on pleasantries. "Are you alone?"

      "Yes, sir. Everyone's left for the holidays."

      "Tell me happened after the battle."

      "After you and the others disapparated, Professor Snape carried Potter back to Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey met us outside the main doors. They took Potter to the hospital wing-"

      Lucius scowled. His tone carried a distinctly unhappy bark. "Hospital! Potter is alive?"

      "Yes."

      "But the spell did affect him."

      "Somewhat."

       The old, blindly obedient Draco disapproved of the half-answer. Bitter Draco overrode him. He wouldn't give over any more information than absolutely necessary.

      "Continue."

      Draco arched a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Not much else to say, really."

      The elder Malfoy narrowed his eyes in dissatisfaction. Their blue hardened to shards of ice made all the more noticeable by the flames that danced around his head.

      "You've had an entire day to investigate. Surely you have more information than that."

      Draco lounged over the arm of the sofa, his pose distinctly apathetic. "Dumbledore suspects I was somehow involved in the attack on Professor Snape. He's keeping a close watch on me. I can't get near anyone to learn anything."

      "I am most disappointed in you, Draco. You are my son. I expect loyalty before all else."

      "Loyalty," Draco repeated, his own eyes hard as flints. "Are you by chance referring to the same type of loyalty you showed me when you refused to save me in the Dark Forest? You would have let that Death Eater cast the Killing Curse at me."

      "What are you angry about? You survived."

      "Because of Harry Potter," Draco snapped. "I don't like owing anyone, Saint Potter least of all." Draco sneered. His nose crinkled in disgust.   
"The thought of it makes me ill."

      "Mind your tongue, boy. You are dangerously close to making me angry."

      "Good, because then we'll be even. I am angry. I have been since you abandoned me, your own son! You would have let him kill me!"

      Lucius ground his teeth together and spoke through them in an almost sibilant hiss. "When Lord Voldemort wants something done, he expects his followers to carry out his orders by whatever means necessary. If you want to join his service, you had best be prepared to make similar choices."

      Draco said nothing, only glared at his father.

      "You will do better, Draco. Our Lord does not accept excuses from anyone, especially not a 15-year-old boy. I will firecall you again tomorrow night at 11. I expect a full report of what is happening to and around Harry Potter."

      "I can't promise anything."

      "I'm not interested in promises," Lucius snapped, "only results."

      The face vanished from the fire before Draco could answer.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: I think I'm going to be flambéd by my readers for this one . . . sorry, elance and werepup, it's another "stupid cliffhanger." :)_ Chapter 11 

      Exhaustion had become a problem.

      At the five-hour mark of their journey, Snape called a reluctant halt. His younger companions had been awake since the attack in the Dark Forest well over 24 hours ago, either standing vigil at Harry's bedside or feverishly combing the library for information. The constant tension of passing through ancient corridors filled with hidden traps had drained what little reserves they had left. Even their concern for Harry could not fend off fatigue, especially with the pace set by Professor Snape.

      Neville immediately sank to the floor, wheezing and limp with exhaustion. Hermione, though not quite as bad, slid down the nearest wall. Snape paced off the last of his nervous energy then joined them.

      The trio made a camp of sorts in a junction of corridors. They exchanged no words as they pulled food from the packs and began eating. The only sounds were the occasional snap of a crisp red apple skin and more subtle chewing sounds. In the absolute silence, even throat noises of swallowed food or water carried to every ear.

      Neville fell asleep sitting up. Hermione took the time to settle more comfortably, using one of the packs as a pillow, but soon she too slipped into exhausted slumber. Snape remained awake, though whether because he simply could not rest or out of a desire to guard the students, even he couldn't say. With a sigh of exasperation, he settled Longbottom into a horizontal sleeping position and tucked both students' cloaks tight around them.

      Once he's packed away the debris from their meal, he sat where he could best see all four branches of corridor. With his wand across his lap, he stood guard, watchful.

###

      Severus Snape jerked awake. He groaned and kneaded at the crick that tied his neck and shoulders into painful knots. He straightened his spine, which crackled like castanets as the vertebrae settled into proper alignment. Snape tipped his arm to view his watch in the light from a nearby firepot--6:15. Hopefully in the morning. He hadn't intended falling asleep. He'd meant to wake the children at 5 o'clock and be on their way by a quarter past. An entire hour, wasted.

      He heard a soft whimper. Snape studied Longbottom but found the boy motionless in deepest sleep. He shifted his attention toward Hermione. The teenaged girl shifted and twitched, caught in the throes of a night terror. In the light from the firepot, tear tracks on her temples and cheeks glistened like gold paint.

      "This is all we need," Severus muttered as he stood up, "a nightmare to make the dark ahead of us even more horrifying."

      Snape knelt beside Hermione, meaning to wake her. Before his hand reached her shoulder, she rocketed off the floor. Eyes wide in terror, Hermione searched frantically and screamed, "_Harry! Where are you? Don't go! Harryyyyyyy!_"

      Neville bolted awake with his own cry, snatched from sleep by the noise. His hand fumbled for his wand, tangled in the folds of his robes.

      "Calm yourself, Mr. Longbottom. It's only Ms. Granger waking from a nightmare. There's nothing to worry about."

      "Nightmare?" Neville blinked like an owl, slowly, ponderously. He processed the news and turned to his year mate. "Hermione?"

      The girl squeezed herself tight and struggled to adjust to the abrupt transition between dream world and waking world. With short, jerky breaths, she calmed her racing heart and willed away the tremors. She looked down, letting her long, bushy hair veil her face, until she once more had herself under control.

      "I-I-I--I'm fine."

      Snape eyed her with misgivings. "Ms. Granger?"

      "I said I'm fine." She knelt and picked up the pack she'd used as a pillow. "Gather everything and let's get going. We're wasting time Harry doesn't have."

      Snape took the pack from her and looped its straps over his left shoulder. With the second bag over his right, he motioned for both teens to precede him.

      Hermione struggled between the urge to speak and the desire to stay silent. Silence won. Her cheeks awash with color, Hermione straightened her robes and trudged down the master passageway. Firepots burst into life at her approach, extending their visibility.

      Neville shrugged at Snape--_girls, who can understand them?_--and followed.

###

      "Stop."

      At Longbottom's call, Snape and Hermione came to an immediate halt. The lesson of the disappearing floor had been well learned.

      "What is it?" Hermione asked.

      "I want to make sure I steer us right. I think . . . yes. This is the place where I first got lost," Neville admitted. "Two of these corridors lead to rooms. We need to take the third. I just have to remember which one was which. I got so turned around, took me hours to straighten myself out."

      "These rooms, could you get into them?" she asked.

      "Yeah."

      Neville looked down each corridor and studied the marks in the dust left by his previous passage. Snape drew breath, most probably to either scold or urge speed. Hermione silenced him with a jerk of his sleeve and a warning headshake. Snape scowled at being shushed by a 15-year-old girl but chose to obey.

      After a moment, Neville nodded, satisfied. He pointed straight ahead, along the corridor they'd followed from the beginning.

      "Unless the stuff inside is invisible or hidden, the room down there is empty." He then pointed to the right. "The one down there looks like a laboratory, with potions equipment and such."

      "Really," Snape said, eying the right-hand branch with interest.

      "We don't have time for side trips," Hermione scolded.

      Snape answered with his trademark scowl. "I am well aware of how little time we have, Ms. Granger. Even more than you, I imagine."

      Though unrepentant, Hermione blushed from her collar to her hairline. Neville cringed on her behalf. Having made his point, Snape turned back to the left-hand corridor. A single set of footprints vanished into the darkness ahead.

      "How far to the next trap?" the Potions Master asked.

      "Around the next bend, about ten feet in." Even as Severus opened his mouth to ask his next question, Neville gave him the answer. "It's one of the dart traps."

      Wand in hand, Severus Snape moved down the left-hand corridor, with its carved columns, diamond-patterned floors, arched ceiling, glowing firepots, and wall frescos. He stopped at the leftward bend in the passage, at the edge of the turn.

      "Did you discover what activated the mechanism?" Snape asked. Neville shook his head. "Well, that isn't very helpful."

      Hermione pinned the adult with a warning glare. She laid her arm around the dejected boy's shoulders and said, "It's all right, Neville. You've brought us this far and stopped us from getting lost just now. You even saved the Professor back at the pit. Don't worry. Between the three of us, we can figure it out."

      Professor Snape observed the way ahead in the light of two freshly ignited firepots, paying careful attention to the walls on both sides. His initial examination found no difference between this and the corridors they had already traversed.

      "I see no darts on the floor from your previous journey," Snape commented. "The castle must reclaim them in some way. From which direction did the darts come?"

      Longbottom pointed straight up. "The ceiling."

      "Not the walls?"

      "No, sir. Only the ceiling."

      Snape studied the arch of stone but saw no hint of ejection hole or slot. "How did you get past the first time?"

      Color tinted the boy's cheeks. "Easy. I ran like hell, sir."

      Snape ignored Hermione's giggles as he said, "I doubt that solution would work for all three of us. Wait here."

      Snape left the children and stepped forward. His eye rested on the floor, on the variation in stone color. Unlike the other passageways, the diamond blocks along this brief section were darker by one or two shades. The difference was subtle, hardly noticeable unless one looked specifically for such a deviation.

      "Here." He pointed to the area with his wand. Taking his call as tacit permission to approach, the Gryffindors hurried forward. Snape's outstretched arm let them proceed no further. "The floor in this section is a different color. Unless I am mistaken, stepping on the darker stones activates the mechanism."

      Snape drew a large circle in the air and whispered a spell. In the area he'd outlined, air melted and hardened into an opaque, milky sheet some three centimeters thick. A thin ribbon of blue-white light connected the wand tip to the center of the sheet.

      "Stay close beside me," Snape warned. "Hold tight to my robes if you must. Whatever happens, remain under the shield."

      With the youths clinging close to his sides, Severus Snape moved forward, the outer face of his magical shield presented toward the deadly ceiling. The instant their feet touched the darker surface, magical holes appeared in the stone overhead. The darts--twisted wooden thorns between two and four centimeters in length--emerged with an explosive snap of air as though ejected by a hundred blowguns. The projectiles struck Snape's shield and bounced off in all directions.

      The ceiling rained thorns. Within seconds the floor disappeared beneath a layer of sticks that crunched like tinder-dry twigs beneath their feet. When Hermione stepped on one such pile, it settled unexpectedly, twisting her ankle to the outside. In the brief instant when one arm flew out to correct her balance, a thorn ricocheted off the wall and sliced across the back of her hand.

      Snape moved them forward at the safest possible pace. At the next intersection, the rain of thorns ended as quickly as it began.

      Snape muttered, "_Finite incantatum_." The milky oval vanished.

      "What spell was that, Professor?" Hermione asked as she dabbed at her stinging hand with the sleeve of her robes. "The one you used to create the shield."

      "One you are far too young to learn," Snape said, his attention already on the way ahead. He moved several feet further down the passageway. "It hardens the air into a shield. Cast incorrectly, however, it can harden _all_ of the air around you for a distance of two meters. Unless someone close by can nullify the spell, you would run out of breathable oxygen in a matter of minutes. Not a very healthy thing to have happen, wouldn't you agree?"

      Hermione swayed, dizzy. Her throat felt tight. Breathing became distressingly difficult.

      "Pro-Professor? I don't . . . feel so good."

      The instant Neville caught Hermione's shoulders, she leaned against him, her legs refusing to bear her weight.

      "Hermione! Professor Snape! Something's wrong with Hermione!"

      Snape materialized directly before them and laid the back of his fingers against her face. Her forehead was fiery to the touch, her skin tight and dry. He immediately noted her gray complexion and labored breathing.

      "Lower her to the floor," he ordered.

      In seconds, the Potions Master found the red, swollen scratch to her right hand. Vivid red striations meandered up her forearm directly from the point of injury.

      Snape snatched at Neville's robes. With great care, he unsnagged a dart that had lodged in the weave and sniffed at the tip. He threw away the dart and unshouldered one of the packs.

      "Open that. Take out the bottle of jewelweed infusion."

      As Longbottom hurried to comply, he asked, "What's wrong with her, sir?"

      "You were far luckier in your first journey than you knew. The darts are poisoned."

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Here it is, the long-awaited Invasion of the Dursleys. I had fun with this one! Enjoy!_ Chapter 12 

      "Now, Molly, you really must calm down before we can leave," Arthur Weasley suggested to his wife, who at that moment was pacing before the fireplace in the Burrow and wringing her hands in anger.

      "Calm. Calm, Arthur? How can I be calm when I'm about to step into that--that--_Muggle's den_!" She turned to her husband, beseeching. "Arthur dear, can't we use a Ministry car? It would be so much more reliable than our own. You know it's been cranky lately, not wanting to fly or turn invisible, especially when I'm in it. I don't think it likes me very much."

      Mr. Weasley patted his wife's back, his expression apologetic but firm.

      "I'm sorry, Molly. You know we can't. By some miracle, Dumbledore has managed to keep the news of the Death Eater attack and Harry's illness out of the press. The fact that most of the students left for holiday before word spread most likely had a lot to do with that. If we use a Ministry car, word will get back to Cornelius Fudge. He'll want to know why we visited the school in the middle of the Christmas holidays. Once he learns about Harry, there's really no telling what he might do."

      Molly narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her midriff, shoving her ample breasts into prominence beneath her rose-pink, woolen half-cloak. Her opinion of the bumbling Minister of Magic was well known and quite clear.

      "Call a press conference, no doubt," she predicted.

      "No doubt," her husband agreed. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He dearly loved his wife, never more so than when she spoke with passion on a subject. "So. That leaves us with using our own means of transportation."

      "We could Floo there," she suggested.

      "The Dursley house was taken off the Floo network, remember? Besides which, I understand from Ron, the Muggles have bricked up their fireplace to prevent anyone from using it as a point of entry. I understand why, as they weren't too pleased with Fred and George's little joke with the Ton-Tongue Toffee. The closest connected hearth in the network is Arabella Figgs', and we can't draw that kind of attention to her." He picked up the keys to the family's Ford Anglia, the vehicle they'd bought to replace the one Ron and Harry lost at the start of their second year at Hogwarts. "Ready?"

      "Not really," she sighed. Molly's expression melted into motherly concern. She resumed wringing her hands. "But I do so want to get to Harry. Why couldn't the Dursleys have gone to Hogwarts yesterday afternoon?"

      Arthur tilted his head. "You really expect those particular Muggles to put off the holiday party they had planned for last night? To give up their own soft beds to rush to Harry's side?"

      "_Pffft_. Not likely."

      "We're rather lucky they're willing to come at all."

      "Lucky!" Molly's voice rose to a fingernails-on-chalkboard screech. "How do you consider it luck to have Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley _Dursley_ at _Hogwarts_?"

      "Molly, dear, no matter what we may think of them, they are Harry's family. His last remaining blood kin."

      She wagged a warning finger in his face. "He won't appreciate their being there. Mark me on that."

      "Probably not," he admitted, grabbed her finger, and pulled her hand down. Before she could protest, he leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. "Albus asked me to transport them, so transport them I will."

###

      At precisely two minutes of seven in the morning, the Ford Anglia stuttered to a stop outside of #4 Privet Drive, Surrey with only the smallest squeal of rubber against the cement curb. Behind the wheel, Arthur Weasley puffed up in pride. He stared at the house number with a beaming smile.

      Up and down the street, each house stood wreathed in lights. In the yards, manger scenes competed with displays of snowmen and monuments to Santa Claus. Number 4 was no exception, wrapped in numerous circles of multi-colored lights. A trio of squat, cheerful figures dressed in red and green stood in the yard next to the cement fountain, surrounded by wrapped presents.

      "See? Got us here just fine, and right on time, too."

      "Fine, yes. If you don't count the three wrong turns."

      "Ahh, but the policing man was so very helpful."

      "You almost talked his ear off," she said. "He probably only gave us the directions so he could get away from your chatter."

      "Molly, dear, has anyone ever told you that you do not travel well?"

      "Oh, I can travel well enough. Your driving on the other hand, is enough to turn me batty."

      "At this point, I am tempted to make a joke about women drivers, but I see from the fire in your eyes, that would not be an intelligent thing to do."

      "No, Arthur, it would not."

      He stared at #4 and heaved a resigned sigh, all trace of his earlier good mood gone. "Well then. I suppose we've put it off long enough. We should go up and knock, don't you think?"

      "Since we're here, we might as well." She opened her knitting bag and took out her latest project, a sweater dress for Cousin Martha up in Edinburgh. "I'll wait here while you go and fetch them, dear."

      Arthur scowled. "Thank you, wife."

      "My pleasure, husband."

      Before Arthur Weasley made it halfway to the door, the portal opened and all three Dursleys stepped outside. Vernon Dursley, a beefy man with three necks and piggish, beady eyes, hurried to lock the door before Arthur got so much as a glimpse inside. At his side, his prune-faced stick of a wife, Petunia, held onto her son, Dudley, as though she feared the wizard would snatch the boy away.

      _As if I would have any reason to take the little whale,_ Arthur thought. _My goodness, he's even bigger than the last time I saw him. I wouldn't have thought it possible. Surely all that blubber can't be real. Or healthy._

      "Good morning. I'm Arthur Weasley, Ronald Weasley's father. Remember me?"

      Arthur held out his hand for shaking. The Muggle pointedly ignored him. Instead, Vernon examined the Anglia, a sneer of superiority on his face. His new company car sat in the driveway, shiny under a new layer of wax.

      "I see you arrived on time and by regular means."

      "Yes." Arthur Weasley didn't think it prudent to mention his car's more magical features. He covered the rejected handshake by clapping his two hands together in a "well then" motion. "If you'll bring out your luggage," Arthur said, "we'll be on our way."

      "No luggage," Vernon replied. "We won't be staying that long."

      Mr. Weasley blinked in confusion. "But we don't know how long Harry will be ill. It could be several days, at least."

      "As I said, we won't be staying long enough to need baggage. We're going to make sure there's no skimping on his care. He is, however unfortunately, our responsibility."

      "Our Duddlykins has a holiday party to get to tomorrow night." Petunia fawned over the enormous boy, petting his greased-back hair and smoothing his clothing. "Don't you, Duddydums?"

      "Why do I have to go?" Dudley whined. Yellow cake crumbs, flecks of chocolate icing, and colored sprinkles sprayed the sidewalk and speckled the front of his white coat. The overall effect was that of a rotund, dirty snowman. "Why can't I stay here today? I'm old enough."

      "Yes, you are, dear," Petunia replied as she wiped off the crumbs, "but as this--er--person has said, we don't know how long we'll be gone, and you would have no way to contact us if something happened."

      He crammed another cupcake into his mouth, whole. Three more waited in his other hand. "I wan'nu s'ay he'." Crumbs sprayed as far as Arthur Weasley's shoes.

      "So do I," Vernon said, "but we don't have a choice. Get it their car, son. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can come back."

      "Quickly now," Petunia urged them forward. "We don't want the neighbors to see."

      The three Dursleys took over the back seat, with Petunia squashed between the bulks of her husband and son. Arthur resumed his place behind the wheel, performed introductions all around, then started the car and drove away.

      "Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-_what the bluudy 'ell?_"

      Petunia grabbed her husband's arm and shrieked.

      "Mum! Dad! We're _FLYING_! The car is off the ground! It's flying!" The house at #4 Privet Drive vanished behind and below them, lost beneath a blanket of fluffy white clouds. Dudley had a sudden thought. "'ere! What about Christmas? We'll be home by then, won't we? All my presents are back there!"

      "Yes, son, we--we'll be home in plenty of time for you to open your gifts." Vernon grabbed Arthur's headrest and leaned forward, his face a particularly sick shade of green. "Do you have to go so high?"

      "We're invisible. No one can see us."

      "I'm not asking if anyone can see us. I don't give a flying . . . well, I could care less about that! We're so _high_!" His clawed fingers left permanent marks in the headrest.

      "We're perfectly safe, Mr. Dursley." Molly did her best to be civil. "Please sit back and enjoy the ride."

      "'Enjoy the ride' did you say? 'Enjoy the ride'! How can I _possibly_ enjoy a ride in a ruddy _FLYING CAR_!"

      Petunia's chant of doom accented Vernon's hysterics. "We're going to fall, we're going to fall, we're going to fall."

      "No, we are not going to fall," Molly said. "This car is perfectly safe. I trust it completely. I trust it to carry my own dear children, which says something right there!"

      The car gave a loud chuff and surged forward. The ride became, if possible, even smoother. Under the hood, the engine purred like a high-tech racing machine. Below the wheels, clouds lay like puffs of gilded cotton, painted gold by the early sun's rays.

      With the distant ground invisible below the cloud deck, Vernon settled down, though Petunia had yet to ease her death grip on his arm.

      "So, um (gulp), tell me more about what happened to the br--er, I mean, to Harry."

      Molly waited for Arthur to answer. When he elected to concentrate entirely on his driving, she reluctantly replied, "Harry was accidentally hit by a very nasty curse. It is, I'm sorry to say, potentially fatal." _That couldn't have been delight to cross their faces. Surely not!_ "There's only one known cure, and the main ingredient is very hard to find."

      "Accident did you say? How so?"

      "Some rather . . . shall we call them 'despicable people' . . . attacked one of the Hogwarts professors in the woods outside the school. Harry was hit by one of the spells."

      "Incompetence. Pure incompetence on the part of the teacher who started it all. Should never have led the boy into danger. I see. Go on."

      Molly fought the urge to grind her teeth together. However much she personally disliked Severus Snape, 'incompetence' was not a word readily applied to him or to anyone associated with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

      "Harry is currently in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. A party has been dispatched to find the main ingredient of the antidote. We can only pray they'll arrive back in time."

      "He's still at the school? Why hasn't he been moved to a real hospital, with real doctors? If such a thing exists for your kind."

      "Yes, it can, and does, exist. There is nothing a hospital can do for Harry that the school's mediwitch, Madame Pomfrey, can't do. At least at Hogwarts, he will be close at hand when the search party returns with the blooms from Dawn's Glory."

      Throughout the conversation, Petunia's chant remained a monotonous, irritating background noise. "We're going to fall. We're going to fall. We're going to fall."

      "This search party," Vernon asked. "Who all is in it?"

      "The Hogwarts Potions Master, Severus Snape, and two of Harry's classmates."

      "This potions master. Is he the same professor, the one from the forest?"

      "Yes."  
      "So you've sent the man responsible for the boy's sickness and two students to find the cure. _Students_, did you say?"

      "My cupcakes are gone," Dudley complained. "I'm still hungry!"

      "What kind of incompetent care is this?" Vernon said. "I'll see that the school and everyone involved is made to pay. Surely there must be some sort of legal system we can go to for recompense."

      "Dad, I'm hungry!"

      "We're going to fall. We're going to fall. Vernon, we're flying! Do something, _we're going to fall!_"

      At the far end of her usually limitless patience, Molly Weasley flicked her wand in the air and said, "_Somnulus_."

      All three passengers in the back seat fell immediately to sleep. Molly returned her wand to her knitting bag and snapped it closed. With every porcine snore and puff, Dudley blew wet crumbs off his clothes and into the rear floorboard. Vernon drooled on Petunia's bony shoulder.

      "Thank you, dear." Mr. Weasley exhaled and shook his head. "Oh, I do dread the return trip."

      "You know now why they're coming, don't you?" Molly railed. "They don't care a fig about that dear, sweet boy. They're hoping to find fault, real or imagined, with Harry's medical care. One way or another, they mean to make profit off it! Not for him, poor boy, no, never for Harry. For themselves!"

      "Calm yourself, Molly, before you burst something."

      "I'd burst the car doors open and toss 'em out if I thought it would do anyone any good."

      Arthur caught the driver's side door and pulled it shut. A hasty spell closed and locked the others.

      "Molly Weasley. You will settle down and rein in that temper of yours. If not for my sake then for Harry Potter's. He doesn't need you prowling around his sickbed in fits of pique, and he certainly doesn't need to hear your rants about his family."

      Molly melted into her seat, repentant. Arthur reached over and squeezed her hand.

      "He'll be all right, Molly dear. Dumbledore will do everything humanly possible to see him well again."

      "But the Devourer's Curse," Molly sobbed, her eyes bright with tears.

      "Wait until we talk to Albus and Poppy. We'll know more then."

###

      Molly let the three Muggles sleep until Arthur set the car down on the main Hogwarts lawn. After a moment of disorientation, Petunia realized they were safely on the ground. Despite her bony stature, she shoved her much larger husband out of the way, escaping the flying car with almost magical speed.

      "Whoa," Dudley moaned. He stared up at the spires of Hogwarts, at the crowns of crenellated towers that vanished into low-lying clouds. A shaft of sunlight broke through the overcast to paint the entire castle in rich, magical color. "His school is bigger than mine. And he has a lake to swim in. And a great expanse of lawn to lie about on. That's not fair!"

      "Hogwarts is older than your school, I imagine," Molly couldn't resist the dig, "by about 900 years, I would say."

      "Dad!"

      "We'll discuss it later, son."

      "Ahh," Arthur said with great relief, "here's the Headmaster."

      Professor Dumbledore, clad in ash gray robes decorated with embroidered dragons done in scarlet, pewter, and silver thread, met the party at the base of the school steps. Professor McGonagall, in her habitual green velvet robes and amber-studded brooch, stood to his left and rear.

      Once more, Arthur Weasley performed introductions.

      "Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley, may I introduce Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With him is Professor Minerva McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House."

      Molly stepped forward before anyone else could speak. "How is Harry?"

      "He's doing as well as can be expected, Molly. Actually, he's doing much better than we'd hoped. Your son's supportive presence, I think, has much to do with it."

      "I want to see this hospital wing I've heard about," Vernon said.

      "Don't you mean, you want to see Harry?"

      "Yes. Harry. Take us to Harry."

      Albus rested a knowing eye on each Muggle in turn. Harry's relatives wiggled beneath his all-seeing gaze. Though by no shift of expression or glitter of eye, Dumbledore left all three with an impression of unmistakable disapproval and disappointment.

      "Follow me. I'll take you to him."

      Within two turns after entering the castle, the Muggles were hopelessly lost.

      Dudley pointed to a suit of armor from the mid-1700s and stammered, "Did . . . did that just . . . move its head--helmet--to watch us?"

      "I imagine it did." The Headmaster tried very hard to keep a smile from his face. "Also, don't be surprised if some of the portraits speak or move. This is, after all, an enchanted castle."

      Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost mascot for Gryffindor House, floated through a doorway and into their corridor. In true gentlemanly fashion, he tipped his nearly severed head in a nod of greeting.

      "Good morning, all. Good morning, ladies."

      Petunia swooned. Vernon, slack-jawed with dismay, didn't even notice his wife lying on the floor. Dudley looked like his cupcakes wanted to make a return appearance.

      "Oh, my," Nick said as he looked down on the unconscious woman. "How odd."

      "A-a-a-a-g-g-g-g-g-g-_ghost_!"

      "Certainly."

      "Forgive them, Sir Nicholas," Dumbledore said. "These are Harry's Muggle relations. I fear they are not accustomed to seeing apparitions such as yourself."

      "Ahh, that explains the odd reaction. Very well then. I shall be on my way. Do give the dear boy my most sincere wishes for a hasty recovery. If the house ghosts or portraits can help in any way, please let us know."

      "Thank you, Sir Nicholas."

      The ghost vanished through the nearest wall.

      Minerva offered to waken Petunia with a spell. Vernon, at last aware of his wife's condition, refused, insisting she would awaken on her own. Professor McGonagall presented the recovering woman with a glass of water. The fact that she had magicked into existence behind everyone's back was simply not mentioned.

      Once everyone was once more on their feet and relatively well, Albus motioned them on. "The hospital wing is around this last corner."

      The party rounded the final turn. The entire Dursley family stumbled to a halt. Rubeus Hagrid stood outside the doors to the hospital wing like a sentinel of stone, tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest. A troll's club, as tall as Dudley and shining from years of wear, leaned against the wall at his side.

      Vernon jabbed a wobbly finger toward Hagrid and took a fearful step back. "You! I remember you!"

      "Aye, and I 'magine you remember other things, as well," Hagrid said, a definite growl in his voice. He touched the polished grip of the club but didn't lift the weapon. "You just be mindin' your manners around that poor, sick boy in there, or you'll be risking somethin' worse than a wiggly tail."

      Dudley moaned and grabbed his hindquarters. In reality, he couldn't reach that far, only able to reach his bulging hips. As an added measure, he backed against the nearest wall, using it to guard his backside until he could slip through the hospital wing doors. His parents slithered past Hagrid and disappeared from view.

      "Hagrid?" Dumbledore blinked his most innocent at the half-giant. A merry twinkle filled his eyes. Beside him, Minerva McGonagall struggled to contain her own mirth. "Did something happen that I should know about? Something about a 'wiggly tail'?"

      "Oh, er, Professor Dumbledore, sir. Professor McGonagall. Um. No, no. Sorry, didn't see you there. The, uh, fat one blocked the view, I s'pose."

      "Hagrid."

      _Sigh._ "Oh dear."

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 

      _Please, Mums, if I go around again, I'm going to be sick._

      "Wake up. Open your eyes."

      Hermione batted at the hand that roughly shook her shoulder. She rolled away and muttered, "G'way, Mums. Lemmesleep. Don' feel good."

      Someone snickered. It wasn't the person shaking her, because she heard a sharp snort of exasperation directly overhead at the same time.

      _Mums would never snort. Would she?_

      "Either you wake up this very instant, Ms. Granger, or I will assign a month of detention for disobeying a teacher."

      _Detention. Mums would threaten with cut allowances or dental appointments but never detention. So who . . ._

      Her eyelids weighed a ton. The best she could do was raise one of them. A strange world swam into bleary focus. She saw a tiny bit of stone wall gilded by flickering firelight. A swirl of dusty obsidian cloth filled the rest of her vision.

      She reached out to move the cloth, thinking it might be a curtain or a drapery. Her hand wrapped around something. Curious, she felt around the shape, trying to guess what it might be.

      "Would you mind not playing with my knee? It is most unbecoming and, quite frankly, irritating."

      So. It was a knee . . . but whose? She should know that voice. She'd once been wary of hearing it. What she could not remember was why?

      "Hermione?" another voice called. Younger, higher in pitch. "You're going to be okay. The dart was poisoned but the Professor has the antidote. You're okay."

      Dart. Yes. The rain of thorns. They'd walked under a pretty shield made from air by Professor Snape.

      Professor . . . Snape?

      She'd been feeling up Professor Snape's knee. She'd called Professor Snape _MUMS_!

      "OH MY GOD!" Hermione Granger sat up quickly, throwing Neville Longbottom back onto his tail. The Potions Master scrambled to avoid doing the same.

      "You're awake, I see. And, I assume, aware?"

      Hermione blinked away a wave of dizziness and stared at her hand. Shiny, swollen skin stretched from mid-forearm to fingertips. The cut itself no longer bled but thin streaks surrounded the wound like scarlet lightning bolts.

      "My hand is the size of a bludger."

      "Yes, it is."

      Hermione struggled to make a fist. She got no further than halfway before a jolt of pain stopped the movement. She hissed and relaxed as best she could.

"And it hurts," she said.

      "I would imagine it does."

      "And . . . Neville, why do you look like you're about to be sick?"

      Snape sniffed. "Probably because he _is_." He moved a fold of his puddled robes to expose a single-dose bottle half-filled with a lumpy, greenish liquid. "We were only able to get half the antidote down you. Drink the last of it."

      Hermione eyed the bottle with strong misgiving. "What is it?"

      "Drink." Hermione took the bottle in her uninjured hand. After a final hesitation, she tipped it between her lips. "Another swallow. Empty it. Go on."

      "Ugh, _ick_!" She tried in vain to wipe the vile flavor from her lips. "That tastes worse than polyjuice potion."

      Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I don't suppose I should care to ask where you learned the taste of that particular concoction."

      Her face heated. "No, not really."

      "My thoughts precisely. How do you feel now?"

      The inflammation had noticeably decreased. Even as she watched, the final swelling eased and the red streaks faded from sight. An experimental movement proved the pain banished, as well.

      "Much better, Professor. It doesn't hurt anymore. Thank you." Recalling the reason for their expedition, she looked to Neville and asked, "How long was I unconscious?"

      "No more than five minutes."

      Severus Snape climbed to his feet and adjusted his robes. From her place on the floor, the Potions Master loomed over her like a gothic tower.

      "Very well. If you feel up to it, I suggest we continue our journey. We still have a ways to go and time grows short."

###****

      Molly and Arthur Weasley paused inside the hospital wing doors and waited, willing to give the Dursleys first visit at Harry's bedside. 

      The three Muggles huddled in a dark corner, clumped together like frightened rabbits. The boy in particular pressed himself tight into the joint of the two walls as though his back portion required maximum protection. Vernon made a grand show of placing himself between his family and the wizards grouped around the room, but even he used every scrap of shadow and furniture to protect himself from view. The trio had no intensions of approaching the bed without being forced to do so at wandpoint.

      Molly scowled, huffed, straightened her knitted robe, and strode forward. Her husband moved with her, a consoling arm around her shoulders. They paused at the bedside and gazed at the two boys.

      Ron lay in uncomfortable sleep, stretched over the arm of a reclining chair to rest his head on his friend's bed. Dark circles marred the space above the freckled cheeks. A worry line ran the length of his forehead and creased the gap between his brows. Molly smoothed her son's hair from his forehead. He slept on, too exhausted to even note her presence. Her mother's heart ached.

      Molly Weasley traced the connection between her son and his friend. From the joined hands, she studied Harry and was surprised to see that, while he looked decidedly unwell, he did not appear as bad as she'd feared.

      "Molly, Arthur."

      "Hello, Poppy." Arthur greeted Madame Pomfrey. He tactfully said nothing about her obvious exhaustion, a state in which he had rarely, if ever, seen her. "He's doing better, then."

      Poppy seemed to shrink, her hands locked in an unconscious wringing motion. After a long look to make certain both boys still slept, she answered in a low whisper, "I'm afraid not. The best I can do is manage the pain. Soon, I won't even be able to do that."

      Molly frowned. She waved her hand over Harry and said, "I admit that he looks ill--feverish and weak--but--"

      Albus Dumbledore stepped up and whispered, "Illusion. For Ronald's sake as much as for Harry's."

      "Illusion?" Arthur questioned.

      "We've hidden Harry's true appearance under a chimera charm."

      "Show me," Molly said.

      His expression clearly uncertain, Dumbledore flicked his wand and cancelled the illusion. The chimera charm faded away.

      Molly covered her mouth to block a cry of dismay. Her other hand pressed against her chest, as though to hold her heart in place. Arthur caught his wife and held her close, his own eyes bright with tears.

      Beneath the illusion lay a totally different boy, one barely recognizable. His skin was gray, blotched with black spots, and covered with early lesions. Black hair covered the pillow where it had fallen out in clumps. A skeletal aura hung over him, as if the essence of Harry Potter's spirit were draining away, leaving behind a desiccated husk.

      Without the chimera charm, the nearness of death could not be denied.

      "Merciful Merlin," Arthur wheezed.

      "I've sent for Remus and Sirius," Dumbledore said, "but I don't know if they'll arrive in time."

      Poppy took advantage of the moment to apply a thick, creamy lotion to the oozing tears in his skin, the worst being around the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead. For a brief time, the lesions ceased to bleed and crusted over with fragile scabs.

      "How . . . how long--"

      "It's difficult to say, but unless Professor Snape, Ms. Granger, and Mr. Longbottom can find Dawn's Glory and get back before full dark, there will not be time enough to prepare the potion. Harry will not see tomorrow's dawn."

      Molly Weasley buried her face against her husband's shoulder and sobbed.

      A raspy voice, thick with gorge, whispered, "Potter?"

      Dumbledore reapplied the chimera charm then turned toward Draco Malfoy. The Slytherin youth stood at the foot of the next empty bed, holding onto the metal bed frame to keep from falling. His complexion, normally milky fair, was shaded a particularly queasy green.

      Pale blue eyes vague with shock tipped up.

      "Headmaster, is that--what I saw--is that what he--how he--really looks?"

      "I fear so."

      Draco leaned his hip against the bed and looked away. He swallowed several times to clear his throat of bile. Deep breaths controlled the worst of his nausea. He shuddered and squeezed his arms, suddenly very cold despite his woolen robes.

      Dumbledore laid a hand on Draco's shoulder. "It's hard to accept that one so young, someone your own age, is vulnerable to such a thing."

      "I've always thought . . . he survived the Killing Curse while still in padded pants. Since coming to Hogwarts, he's faced the Dark Lord over and again and walked away every time. I suppose . . . I suppose I thought him invulnerable."

      The Headmaster released a heavy breath. "However much we might wish it, no one is invulnerable to this kind of insidious evil. Neither you, nor I, nor even Harry Potter."

      Overwhelmed by emotions with which he had no experience, Draco looked around for any form of distraction. Rubeus Hagrid stood in the doorway, rivers of tears flowing into his beard. Beside him, Professor McGonagall soothed the half-giant even as she, too, prepared herself to grieve.

      Draco settled on the three strangers still pressed into the shadowed corner.

      "Who are they?"

      "The Dursley family. Harry's guardians. The woman is his aunt, his mother's sister."

      A shadow of Draco's habitual sneer shone through. "Priceless lot, that."

      Dumbledore hummed a sound vaguely like an agreement. He patted Draco's shoulders, heaved a last weary sigh--this one a fortification for the upcoming conversation--and stepped over to the Dursley family.

      Left alone, Draco found his gaze drawn back to the bed. Despite the chimera disguise, his mind still saw the hideous, crawling cracks across Potter's forehead. He saw skin gray as a marble gravestone, a body shrunken and empty.

      Professor Snape would not make it back in time to brew the antidote. Harry Potter was going to die.

      Between one eye blink and the next, Draco's worldview melted. He and Potter would never be friends, but the thought of losing their adversarial relationship disturbed him on the deepest levels. Who would he set himself against? Who would provide him with a worthy challenge?

      "You call this a _hospital_?" the Muggle woman's screechy voice ripped its way around the long chamber. "I've seen more advanced facilities in a corner druggist's shop. You'll be putting on the painted beads and feathers and bringing out the rattles next!"

      "I can assure you, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore did his best to calm the woman, "Harry would receive no finer care in any other facility."

      "I want to speak to someone in authority," the Muggle man said. "I mean someone in the government, not this--this nightmare excuse for a school. Surely you have _some_ kind of legal system. I demand that someone be brought here to hear our grievance!"

      _Stupid, brainless oafs. Malfoy rolled his eyes and shook his head. If they have an ounce of sense between them, I'll swallow my wand. Father would love this lot--the perfect examples of Muggle inferiority. And they are guardians to a wizard like Harry Potter?_

_      Maybe . . . maybe Saint Potter's life outside of Hogwarts isn't as rosy as I thought it to be. And maybe, just maybe, Father's way--Voldemort's way--is wrong._

      He stared at his school adversary and made a solemn vow. No one would ever hear it, or even learn of it, but to Draco Malfoy, it carried a binding more powerful than any Imperious curse.

      _I am a dark wizard, I am Slytherin, but I will never be soulless._

TBC

_A/N: There are so many reviewers for this story, with new ones coming in every day. Thank you ALL! Each review is like a shot of writing energy that goes straight back into the story! With so many, however, I'm sure to miss someone when I send out new-chapter emails. SOOOO, I have created a forum in Yahoo!Groups called Potter_by___Meercat._

_To join, email the group at:_

_potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com._

_Feel free to use this private forum to receive posting updates, chat with other fans of the story, and give me ideas on how you think the story should go! :) All are welcome. I only ask one thing: Play nice in the sandbox!_

_Toodles,_

_Meercat_


	14. Chapter 14

_To be notified of new posts, join us at: __potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com_

Chapter 14 

      "If you dare say one word," Hermione rubbed her hip and glared at the two males who did their best to appear innocent as lambs, "I will hex you both into the next millennium."

      Voice smooth as oiled silk, Severus Snape replied, "What can one say to such a . . . graceful display of coordination and acrobatics?"

      "Brilliantly executed moves," Neville Longbottom added. "And all of them quite original."

      "Worthy of a perfect score, wouldn't you say, Mr. Longbottom?"

      "Definitely." The boy's head bobbed enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, Professor Snape. Definitely."

      Black eyes gleamed with an unholy humor. "Hmmm."

      "Next millennium isn't far enough," she muttered. "I'm leaning more toward the year _three_ thousand and one!"

      Still rubbing her aching hindquarters, Hermione Granger glared back at the cause of her embarrassment. The ice river appeared beneath one wall and vanished under the opposite side. The stretch in between spanned almost two-dozen yards across and shone every shade of blue, from palest ice to indigo. In places, the frigid surface resembled spun crystals that, when struck by light, cast ethereal rainbows onto the walls and ceiling. The river creaked, groaned, and popped as it flowed, glacially slow, from one wall to the other.

      Neville's original solution of transfiguring an item into skates proved equally as feasible the second time around, with one slight exception: Hermione Granger did not know the first thing about ice skating. Severus Snape and Neville Longbottom were almost to the far side of the ice river before they realized they'd left her behind.

      Stubborn pride kept her from accepting help even after it was offered. It likewise resulted in a dozen painful falls onto the hard, rough ice. Her muscles ached from the unfamiliar strain of dealing with constantly shifting balance and an untrustworthy floor. No sooner would she find her footing than the river would shift or she would hit a raised, rough patch of ice. She spent more time sliding along on her hip than she did on the transfigured skates.

      With a sob of relief, she reached the stone "beach," its blocks scoured and scored by untold years of friction with the ice river, and pulled herself onto solid floor. Her robe looked as though she had been pulled backwards through a thicket of scissors, with tears, rips, and pulled threads along its entire length.

      Mortified with embarrassment, Hermione hid her reddened palms in the folds of her tattered robe and refused further rubs to her sore parts. She stalked on down the corridor, head high, doing her best to hide a pronounced limp and ignore the snickers behind her.

      From the distant bend, she called back, "Well? Are you laughing hyenas coming or not?"

      Her voice echoed down the long passage. The vibration dislodged spiders from their webs. Crawlers landed on the floor with crisp _splats_.

      After another five minutes of silent walking, Neville blocked his companions from moving any further and pointed to a section of black corridor. The ebony stone walls absorbed all light, giving the illusion that to move any further meant stepping into nothingness. Even without Longbottom's warning, the transition from common stone to inky darkness would have raised adequate warning.

      Snape wrinkled his nose. A faint stench of sulfur clung to the enclosed space. Beneath their feet, dust mixed with fine gray ash. A thin dust fog covered the tops of their boots. Severus studied the marks in the dust further along the corridor. A wide, dragged line of some sort took the place of the expected footprints.

      "This is the fire trap, I take it?" Snape said.

      "Yes, sir. Jets on both sides shoot across the corridor from right about here," Longbottom pointed to the nearer edge of black stone, "all the way to where the common stone starts again."

      "So, basically, where there is black stone, there will be fire. How did you slip past this the first time?"

      Neville jerked a thumb back in the direction from which they came.

      "I cut a sheet of ice from the river, polished it smooth on the bottom, and made an ice sled. It lasted long enough for me to get to the other side."

      This explained the line in the dust. Eying its meandering path, Snape couldn't resist adding, "You were fortunate that you didn't slam yourself head-first into a wall. Still, it was an inventive idea. It might yet work for both you and Ms. Granger. However, I fear my size and weight makes it unfeasible for me."

      "The space beneath is high enough for us to crawl under. We'll definitely have to keep our heads down, though."

      "That will have to do." Snape judged the distance they would have to cover. "About twenty feet, I'd wager. Doable. What about you two? Think you can crawl that far on your belly?"

      "For Harry, I would crawl ten times that far," Hermione vowed.

      Neville said nothing but nodded his agreement.

      "Very well. Let us see precisely what we face."

      Snape pulled an empty potions vial from the smaller pack and threw it along the corridor. Jets of blue-white flame melted the bottle in midair. Before the goo could strike the ground, additional flame-jets activated. Nothing remained of the vial except a puff of black smoke and a few flakes of dust.

      A solid curtain of fire stretched across the corridor from a height taller than Snape's head to a point about 18 inches from the floor. The trio stumbled back, their hands before their faces to block the blast furnace heat. The sound reminded Hermione of a dragon's flaming roar, like the one she'd heard during the Tri-Wizard Tournament in her fourth year. The stench of sulfur made her gag.

      "Lie flat on the floor," Snape called over the noise. "Unless you want them burned off, you will keep your heads and your rumps _down_."

      Despite her brave words to Professor Snape, Hermione had to force herself to slide beneath the blue-white jets. A primal fear, rooted in deepest racial memory, dreaded fire before all other dangers. At this point, no amount of mental smarts, book learning, or spell casting would save her from critical burns. An instant's inattention might prove fatal.

      Dust tickled her nose. The urge to sneeze was an additional irritation that Hermione would gladly have done without. Between the particles and the heat, her eyes watered constantly, forcing her to blink away tears or be blinded. She tasted ash and felt the grind of dirt between her teeth. Within moments, a gummy layer of soot coated her tongue. The air around them shimmered, like waves rising from a sun-heated sidewalk.

      The ends of her unrestrained hair levitated in the currents of overheated air, floating as though they had no weight. Every instinct screamed for her to stop, cover her head, and wait for the conflagration to stop. She pulled herself another finger's length forward.

      Blistering warmth swirled around the three crawlers and leached away every iota of breathable oxygen. Hot tendrils lashed across their backs, horribly close to unprotected flesh.

      "'Mione, your hair!"

      Tongues of bright orange flame, hungry and eager, danced along the bushy strands. Hermione struggled to put out the flames but could not reach them without thrusting her hands directly into the path of the fire jets. She screamed.

      Snape worked his wand free of his cloak. His skin reddened in the closeness of the flame. Ignoring the pain, the Potions Master wove the obsidian tip of his wand in the small space of non-inflamed air and said, "_Exstingute flammam__!_"

      A blue mist cocooned Hermione's head. The flamelets flickered and died, leaving behind scorched ends and untouched flesh.

      "Hold your hair down, stupid girl, and keep moving!"

      Hermione did her best to gather her hair and stuff it into the neck of her robe. Even so, Snape had to twice more douse flamelets that managed to catch hold of a floating strand. She crawled forward at a faster pace, driven by fear and an almost mindless desire to be away from the flames.

      A swirl of superheated air struck Neville in the face, throwing ash, trash, and grit into his eyes. He yelped and struggled to clear his vision. Tears flowed, transforming the cinders into sticky soot that sealed his lids closed.

      "Ow! My eyes! Can't see!"

      "Hold on, boy," the Potions Master called. "Don't move."

      Neville tried to move toward the voice, calling, "Professor?"

      "You heard me, Mr. Longbottom. Keep your head down and do not move!"

      Severus Snape reached the safe zone first. Once clear of the flames, he uncoiled the rope and made a hard, fast loop at the end. He paused to reach under the fire and pull Hermione the final distance to safety then lay flat on his stomach and slid the looped rope toward Longbottom. Three tries carried the line within the boy's reach.

      "The rope is less than a foot in front of your left hand. There's a loop on the end. Reach out and wrap the loop around your wrist."

      Neville groped around until he found the hemp coil. Once he'd secured his wrist as instructed, the Head of Slytherin House pulled up the slack and slowly hauled the boy to rest of the way under the fire trap.

      Before Longbottom had time to mutter a pain-filled, "Ash in my eyes," a steady flow of water poured from the tip of Snape's wand. Within minutes, the blinding obstruction was flushed away.

      "Better?"

      Neville blinked reddened, swollen eyes. "Yes, sir."

      Hermione hugged her yearmate and asked, "Neville, are you sure you're all right?"

      "I'm fine." Neville reached out to pinch a crisped lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. "What about you?"

      "I'm a little singed around the edges, that's all."

      Hermione pulled her hair over her shoulder to examine the damage. She tried to make light of the near-disaster even as she shivered from head to foot. A slight tremor moved beneath the Gryffindor's otherwise optimistic voice.

      "I suppose that's one way to get rid of the split ends, but it isn't one I intend to recommend to my stylist." She looked at Severus Snape and said, uncommonly solemn, "Thank you, Professor."

      Snape responded to her heartfelt gratitude in typical Slytherin fashion. He glared at Neville and asked, "Well, Mr. Longbottom? Where now?"

      "Nowhere." Neville pointed to a grand door at the end of the corridor. "We're here."      

TBC

_A/N #1: A special thank you to my good friend Iroshi, who helped me find just the right spell for Snape to use! FYI: The Latin term "__Exstingute flammam" is pronounced__ "__EX-steen-GOO-tay flahm-MAHM" and means "extinguish the flame."_

_A/N #2: A second thank you to Sharon, for giving me the idea of "blinding" someone. I think it worked perfectly--certainly better than having Neville panic. THANKS!___


	15. Chapter 15

_To be notified of new posts, join us at: __potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com_

_A/N: To my wonderful reviewers--THANK YOU!!! I appreciate you all! But...might I recall to your minds the ancient proverb that you attract better with honey than with vinegar? :)_

Chapter 15 

      "This is it," Hermione said. "We made it. The entrance to Rowena Ravenclaw's garden."

      A brace of firepots, taller and more elaborate than any thus far seen, flanked the great doors. Their bowls, as large as the hearth in the Gryffindor Common Room, flared upon their approach. Silken webs curled and vanished in the rush of flame and heat. On each pedestal was carved a magnificent raven in flight, its talons resting on top an ancient variation of the Hogwarts crest.

      However interesting the carving on the firepots, they faded to insignificance next to the great garden's entry doors.

      Carved from solid stone yet so intricately mounted as to be manageable by a single person, the two panels formed an arch that rose two stories over their heads. Outside the borders, hidden behind curtains of cobwebs, images of every kind of land-based animal had been carved into the stone. The doors themselves were covered in all manners of fantastical creatures. A crown of seven soaring dragons graced their peak.

      "Whoever designed this certainly wanted to make a statement," Hermione commented.

      "You can admire the architecture some other time. Move back, both of you," Snape commanded. "I'm going to open the doors. Stand ready to deal with anything that might rush out."

      Once the students had moved clear, Snape broke through a thin layer of silver webs, destroying months of industry by the castle spiders to repair the damage caused by Neville's last trip through the doors. The Potions Master grabbed the stone handle and pulled.

      Bright sunlight poured through the opening. The trio blinked against the sudden, blinding illumination before their eyes adjusted. When nothing leaped forth to threaten them or challenge their entrance, Professor Snape signaled the students forward. They stepped over a raised stone sill and moved from dungeon-gloomy passages into an entirely different world.

      "Merciful Merlin," Snape whispered as he stared along the stone-lined pathway to the gardens beyond.

      Hermione swallowed, her eyes bright. "It's . . . too beautiful for words."

      A landscape of circular beds disappeared into a fog-shrouded distance. Some were little more than boggy swamp or marsh pits that stank of decomposition and rot. Rolling meadows carpeted by brilliant flowers and bushes that bent under the weight of every-hued berries rested on ground level. Mesas as tall as a two-story building stretched toward a dome of clear glass. Toward what looked to be the center of the room stood trees taller than any they'd ever seen before, their tops invisible amidst clumps of fluffy, white clouds.

      In the far distance toward their right loomed black storm clouds that dropped rain in solid sheets. Lightning flashed.

      Behind them, the great doors closed, unnoticed. 

      "This room is so big," Hermione breathed, "you can't see the far walls . . . _any_ of them."

      "Stay on the pathways," Neville warned. Having been through the chamber once before, he shook off the thrall faster than his companions. Vivid memories of the room's hidden dangers dispelled any sense of innocent fairytale or harmless dreamscape. "You don't want to be standing half on a bed and half on the walkway when they shift around."

      "How often do they make this change?" Snape asked.

      "I didn't time them when I was last here," Longbottom admitted as he swatted away a swarm of gnats that fogged the air in front of his face, "but I'd guess around every half-hour or so." He pointed to the nearest bed, piled high with sweet-scented lilacs. "There it goes."

      The garden shimmered, melted, and faded, like paint washed from a canvas. For one long moment, the chamber waited, suspended between stillness and motion. In the blink of an eye, the world around them reformed. Bogs became meadows. Fields changed to forests. Low beds transformed into to raised platforms.

      Longbottom sighed. His shoulders slumped under the enormity of their task.

      "Now all we have to do," he said, "is find one small grove of plants among thousands in a room that shifts without warning."

      Hermione eyed the red patches on their exposed skin and recommended, "Before we do anything, we should treat our burns."

      Hermione snatched the smaller of the two packs away from Snape. As she rooted through its contents, the Potions Master glared down on her and sniffed. "I suppose you have Burn-Be-Gone cream in there somewhere?"

      "Of course. Here it--no, that's Frostbite-Be-Gone. I doubt we'll need that anymore but it never hurts to be prepared. Ah, here it is."

      She held up a screw-top glass jar filled with amber cream. She dabbed the rose-scented cream on Snape's reddened flesh then applied it to the areas on Neville's face and neck. Without a word, Snape took the jar and treated Hermione's burns. Of the three, Snape had fared the worst; the thick aroma of roses wafted around him like a cloak of scent.

      "If one of you cracks so much as a smile or makes a single joke," the Potions Master hissed, "I will turn you into a slug and squash you under my boot."

      The Head of Slytherin House turned in a swirl of black robes and strode down the walkway. Behind him, the two students shared a single smothered giggle then trotted to catch up.

      "Neville?" Hermione said. "Can you remember any of the beds that surrounded the one with Dawn's Glory? Maybe if we find them, the one we're looking for won't be far away."

      "Sorry, no." He shook his head. "I wasn't looking at the beds. I just wanted to find a way out."

      "Typical Gryffindor," Snape muttered, deliberately loud enough to be overheard. Neville's cringe and Hermione's frown bounced off his back without notice.

      Movement caught Hermione's eye. Her hand darted toward the wand up her sleeve. She blinked and smiled. The wand remained in his holder, undrawn.

      "Look," she cooed. "Oh, aren't they adorable?"

      Snape and Longbottom followed her gesture. Three fluffy white rabbits crouched on a tiny knoll of one bed, timidly munching on clover. Large, luminous eyes followed their movements. The rabbits' ears wobbled, noses twitched, and bodies momentarily tensed for flight before the animals decided the humans posed no threat. They resumed dining on clover, though part of their attention remained on the three humans.

      Something shot past Snape's head, so close as to pull out four greasy hairs. The trio caught a glimpse of auburn and gold feathers and outstretched talons before the raptor, a hawk of some sort, stooped down upon the rabbits.

      Hermione Granger _eeped_ and fell back, covering her eyes. Neville Longbottom swallowed bile and moaned. Severus Snape stared, mesmerized.

      The three rabbits, so innocent and harmless, turned on the diving hawk. Before the bird more than squawked in surprise, the rabbits pinned it to the ground. With razor sharp teeth, they ripped away feathers and tore into the meat. Within seconds, blood stained their fluffy white fur a crimson red.

      Neville turned away and vomited into the grassy verge.

      "Let that be a lesson to us all," Snape said. "This room is dangerous and we would do well to remember that. Even the most harmless-seeming plant or animal is as likely to be deadly as docile."

      "Somehow, Professor," Hermione cringed away from the sound of crunching bone and snapping teeth, "I don't see anything 'docile' surviving here for very long."

      "Neither do I. Keep moving."

      After they'd moved away from the grizzly feast, Hermione swatted at a mosquito and said mostly to herself, "One thing puzzles me."

      "Only one?" Snape replied. "And what might that be?"

      "However many insects and animals there might be, this chamber is most definitely intended to cultivate _plants_. Why all the traps? Disappearing floors, pits, poison darts, fire jets, and ice rivers. Surely they weren't put in place to protect a _garden_, even one as magnificent as this."

      "Since Rowena Ravenclaw did not leave behind any hint of this room's existence, let alone her purpose in laying the traps, I'm afraid we may never know the answer. In the meantime, I suggest that we find the Dawn's Glory and return to the hospital wing as soon as possible."

      The students trailed along behind the professor for several minutes before Hermione spoke again. Her voice was soft and hesitant, as though she both longed for and feared the answer. "How do you suppose Harry's doing?"

      "By this point, I would say not well at all," Snape answered, uncaring of either students' feelings. "I'd be surprised if the pain hasn't driven him into a coma by now. I might even dare to guess that the curse has caused his skin to-"

      "_Professor._" Neville glared at Snape hard enough to raise the Potions Master's eyebrows. Beside him, Hermione held herself and shuddered. Her eyes shone with tears. Longbottom hugged his yearmate and did his best to smile. "Harry'll be fine, Hermione. We'll get back in time. We will. We have to."

      With a snuffle against his shoulder, Hermione nodded, stiffened her spine, and stepped down the path. As he trooped along after her, Neville whispered to Snape, for the first time in his life uncaring as to how he spoke to a teacher, "I-if you can't say anything positive, sir, with all respect you-you shouldn't say anything at all. I-I mean--this is hard enough without you or-or--someone voicing doomsayings."

      "Are you daring to berate me, Mr. Longbottom?" Snape crooned, his voice velvet and venom.

      Neville cringed but held stubbornly to his righteous indignation. "I'm only asking that you stop saying things that don't help us with what we're doing. Hermione doesn't need to know everything that's happening to Harry right now. It doesn't help but it definitely could hurt what we're doing here. That--that's all I'm asking, sir."

      The beds chose that moment to make another switch. The trio regrouped at a juncture of pathways and paused a moment to study their new surroundings.

      "It's like the plants that need the sun stay in the sunlight," Neville Longbottom noted, "and the beds that need shadow follow it around, too."

      "You might well be right," Snape said. "At least, that is as good an explanation as an-"

      Three wands came up as, in the near distance, a large cat screamed.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

_To be notified of new posts, join us at: __potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com_

_A/N: This one is a little shorter than previous chapters, but __Lady Lunar Phoenix __groveled so nicely. This one is for her. :)_

Chapter 16 

      From his chair set near Potter's left arm, Draco Malfoy looked up from a worn copy of the July issue of _World Class Quidditch_. Drawn away from the magazine's only interesting article by the unending noise, he studied the Muggles and shook his head. Would they ever shut up?

      _I never thought I'd find myself feeling sorry for Saint Potter._

      Until Ron Weasley answered from his seat on Harry's other side, Draco didn't realize he had said the thought aloud.

      "I never thought I'd find myself agreeing with a Malfoy," Ron said, "but so do I."

      Having managed to catch Madame Pomfrey as she exited her storage room, Vernon Dursley puffed up three times his usual size (which was saying something) and demanded in his most officious tone, "I insist that you let me see someone from your legal department. _At once!_"

      On the other side of the hospital wing, Petunia searched for her son behind partitions and around corners without success.

      "Dudley-kins? Where is my Duddy-dums hiding?"

      The door banged open. Rubeus Hagrid strode in, his giant fingers tangled in the collar of the Muggle boy's jacket. Despite a gross tonnage that would rival a whale, Dudley swung off the half-giant's hand like a sack of feathers. The boy's toes barely brushed the ground.

      "Professor McGonagall an' I foun' him down in the dungeon. In the Potions classroom, of all places."

      "I was looking for the kitchen," Dudley whined. "I'm hungry!"

      Minerva McGonagall strode in behind them. "Then _ask_ one of us. Don't go wandering the halls poking your head into any room you please. You're as like to get yourself lost or eaten as you are to find food to eat yourself."

      Hagrid added his own warning, saying, "If you'd swallowed the contents of the container you were holdin', you'd've sprouted wings an' flown off to be eaten by a bat!"

      Petunia rushed to save her elephant of a son. "You giant--well, you giant bully, you put my son down this instant! Oh, my darling baby, are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

      Draco's face mirrored conflicting urges to grin and grimace. "Are they always like this?"

      "Unfortunately," Ron answered, "yes."

      "Eww."

      The two teenagers looked at one another, for one brief moment united in their disgust for Harry Potter's relatives. Malfoy and Weasley realized their unspoken agreement at the same instant. They immediately buried their attention in either a magazine or the far wall.

###

      A low, explicit curse touched Professor McGonagall's ears. Her eyebrows arched toward her green velvet hat--only one person stood close enough to have uttered the obscenity. She turned in time to see the afterimage of a departing house elf.

      "Good gracious. Albus?" McGonagall laid her hand on the Headmaster's twitching arm. "What is it?"

      Dumbledore stiffened, his entire body braced for a blow. A worry line formed between the old wizard's eyes. A shadow of gloom darkened his face.

      "More trouble, Minerva."

      With a huff of vexation, the Transfiguration Master waved to the room in general, particularly toward the Dursleys. At that particular moment, they alternately coddled each other and yelled at everyone else at the top of their not inconsiderable lungs.

      Rubeus Hagrid stood at the foot of Harry's bed, his eyes bright with tears. Madame Pomfrey escaped back into her supply room and closed the door firmly behind her.

      Arthur and Molly Weasley attempted to converse in another section of the room. Judging by the hard glares they sent toward the Dursleys, they were not having much success.

      Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley had set up silent vigil at Harry's bedside. Malfoy occupied his time reading from an old magazine. Weasley straightened the blankets over his friend and stroked his shoulder before sitting down again.

      Potter himself had slipped into a coma, free at last from the unending agony. Whether he remained unconscious thanks to Pomfrey's strongest potions or due to the Devourer's curse, no one dared say.

      "I fail to see how the situation can get any worse," she said.

      "The Minister is here."

      Minerva released a weary breath. "I stand corrected."

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

_To be notified of new posts, join us at: __potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com_

Chapter 17 

      "What on earth would bring Cornelius Fudge to Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays?"

      "I fear I know the answer," Albus said, his eyes on the unconscious youth around whom all the activity and angst centered.

      "Harry," the Transfiguration Master agreed. She stiffened with alarm. "The Minister wouldn't demand we remove him to St. Mungo's, would he? Surely we have a greater say in the boy's care than he."

      "We must be very careful, Minerva. The Dursleys are his legal guardians. If they side with the Minister and authorize alternative care, we will have no legal grounds to keep Harry at Hogwarts."

      McGonagall grabbed the Headmaster's ash gray sleeve. Beneath her fingers, scarlet and pewter embroidery threads strained and creaked. Her eyes flew to the windows, where rays of the sun tipped westward.

      "If they take him away," her Scottish accent grew more pronounced with increased worry, "we won't be able to get him the antidote in time."

      "I know, my dear." Albus patted her hand in weak comfort. His expression was particularly solemn. "I know."

      The Headmaster stood taller and studied the occupants of the room. Action was needed, not anxiety or panic.

      "We must do two things, quickly. One, give Hagrid a task that will take him out of the hospital wing for the length of the Minister's visit. I fear he will react badly should Cornelius suggest removing Harry from our care."

      "I'll take care of it," McGonagall promised.

      "While you arrange that, I'll do the same with the Dursleys."

      As she moved away, Minerva McGonagall cast an acid-laced suggestion over her shoulder. "Might I suggest food? Animals are so easily lured by the scent of fresh bait."

      Before she walked away, she saw the Headmaster stifle a smile.

      Minerva approached Hagrid as the half-giant trumpeted a hard, watery blow into a handkerchief the size of an average baby blanket. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his cheeks glassy with moisture. On his far side, Madame Pomfrey did her futile best to comfort him.

      "Rubeus," McGonagall said, "might I impose on you for a favor?"

      Hagrid wiped his face and sniffed back further tears.

      "Certainly, Professor."

      "I understand from Poppy that she's running low on feverdew, one of the main ingredients in many of the medicines we're giving Harry. Would you mind going to Madame Sprout's greenhouse and gathering some? I know she's not here, but I don't think she'd mind us raiding her gardens for supplies."

      The mediwitch blinked in confusion but said nothing in contradiction.

      "I'll be more than happy to do that for you, Professor." Hagrid perked up, grateful to be doing anything that might be of help. "I'll be back quick as I can."

      The half-giant lumbered out of the room, headed for the greenhouses. Poppy studied Minerva from beneath gathered brows.

      "I'm out of feverdew? Since when?"

      "Cornelius Fudge is here. Albus doesn't want Hagrid to react to anything the man might say or suggest."

      "Ah. I fully agree. And come to think of it, I really could use more feverdew. And as to our illustrious but bumbling Minister's visit . . ."

      Poppy waved her wand. A white cloth screen that leaned against a far wall unfolded itself into four tall panels. At a whispered spell, the screen levitated and crossed the room. It came to rest on Draco Malfoy's right, effectively blocking the view of anyone standing in the doorway.

      At McGonagall's questioning glance, Madame Pomfrey shrugged. "Any little delay will help."

###

      Out in the corridor, before the now-closed doors, Albus Dumbledore stood with his hands buried in the full sleeves of his ash gray velvet robes. With each deep breath, embroidered dragons created in scarlet, pewter, and silver thread moved around as though the seamstress had captured fragmentary glimpses of the beasts in flight.

      To his right, the Dursleys disappeared around a far corner, escorted by the Hogwarts caretaker Argus Filch and his cat Mrs. Norris toward one of the secondary guest dining rooms. No sooner had they vanished from sight than the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, stepped into view along a different corridor.

      "Cornelius," Albus hailed his one-time friend. The puffy, portly Minister scowled when the Headmaster failed to present his hand for greeting as had once been his custom. "Merry Christmas and welcome to Hogwarts. To what do we owe this unexpected visit?"

      "There are rumors around town, Dumbledore. Disturbing rumors. I've come to learn the truth of things before there is panic in the streets."

      "Oh, dear. Panic in the streets." Albus responded to the doom saying with all the seriousness such a comment deserved. The subtlety of his irony flew far over Fudge's head. "That sounds most distressing. But, surely, nothing here at Hogwarts could create such a mindless rush of fear."

      "It can if their previous Boy-Who-Lived doesn't live anymore."

      Dumbledore arched back, for once allowing an honest reaction of indignation to show. "Cornelius, _really_. You sound almost as though you would welcome such a tragedy."

      "Balderdash. I mean only that the boy's a national hero. Anything that affects him also affects the wizarding world, and thus it affects me in my capacity as leader of Britain's magical society. You can't deny that."

      "No," Albus said. "I can't deny it. To some extent, Harry Potter's health and well-being might be of newsworthy interest to some people. However, I seriously doubt it could cause the suggested riots and chaos."

      "You never know. This is why I must learn the truth of things. I must be prepared for all eventualities once news of anything dire at last leaks out."

      "You could stay out of the matter entirely and thus claim a true innocence of knowledge."

      "No one ever believes the 'I was never aware of this' argument, Albus. The more one protests, the more certain people become that something is being hidden away. Usually something nasty or embarrassing. You know what those reporters for the _Daily Prophet_ are like--if they can't find a true scandal, they'll make one up out of whole cloth. No, no. I want to know what, if anything, is happening to Harry Potter."

      Unwilling to be deterred or redirected, Cornelius Fudge moved around Dumbledore and stepped into the hospital wing. He frowned to see Arthur and Molly Weasley whispering with Minerva McGonagall. What was Arthur doing here--were the rumors more about their son Raymond than his friend Harry? Madame Pomfrey made notes on a scroll at her table in the back corner. A strategically situated screen hid the only occupied bed from immediate view.

      "Albus, you must tell me the truth. I will find it all out eventually. Don't you think it would be better if I heard your side first?"

      Dumbledore thought furiously before accepting Fudge's argument. "Very well. You are right, Cornelius. You see, Prof-"

      A loud bang of wood against stone brought everyone's attention to the doors. Vernon Dursley powered his way through the double-paneled portal. So great was his speed that he stumbled to keep from plowing into the Minister of Magic.

      Petunia slid into the room to stand partly behind her husband's shoulder. Dudley, apparently, had decided to carry on to the promised food.

      Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, hid his dismay behind a blank, almost vacuous expression. Only the momentary slump of his shoulders betrayed his disappointment.

      "Thought there must be some reason you wanted to hurry us out of the room. I'm not as dumb as you seem to think." Vernon Dursley sank beefy fists on his hips. "Who are you?"

      The Minister huffed twice, murmured a, "_Well, I never,_" and bristled at the newcomer's overbearing tone. The pose had the unfortunate side effect of thrusting his overly rotund stomach into greater prominence. The jeweled buttons of his gold waistcoat strained in their holes.

      "If it is any concern of yours," he said, "I am Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic."

      Dursley ballooned in triumph. His piggy eyes glittered. Behind him, Petunia thrust her pointy chin high in the air and pinched her lips tight, as though she tasted something foul on the air.

      "Someone in charge. Finally! I demand to be compensated for the pain and suffering of my wife's nephew. It's obscene the way you wizards treat your children. I'll be wanting _real_ money, not whatever funny stuff you wizards use amongst yourselves."

      Fudge looked away from the officious Muggle as though the man were a particularly ugly species of slug.

      "Dumbledore, what is going on here? Who is this man?" He eased farther into the room in spite of the Headmaster's delicate attempts to impede his progress. "As I said, I've heard disturbing rumors and I came to see if they were-"

      The Minister observed Lucius Malfoy's boy--Dragon? Drago?--seated in the nearer chair. Before he noted anyone else, his gaze settled onto the occupant of the only used bed. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

      Under layers of blankets raised to his chin, Harry Potter lay frightfully still. Only by hard study could a visitor note the fragile rise and fall of his chest.

      "Merciful Merlin. It's true. He's dead."

      "No, he is not dead. He's unconscious!"

      Molly Weasley placed herself between Fudge and the bed. She crossed her arms around her midriff, thrusting her breasts up and out, and glared at him down the long line of her nose. The Minister, instantly intimidated, took a hasty step back.

      Vernon glared at everyone around the room and objected, saying, "He's dying, and no mumbo jumbo or cauldrons of smoking goo will save him."

      "Dying?" Fudge gasped. "Dying? _Dying_, Albus?"

      "Harry was accidentally struck with _iatis septra raz_."

      Cornelius Fudge squeaked and hopped in place. His complexion lightened seven shades. His eyes rounded to the size of saucer plates, and his jaw dropped a good three inches.

      "The Devourer's Curse? There--there's no cure for that. The boy _is_ dying."

      "There is still hope. A party is even now procuring the activating ingredient for the antidote. They should be returning within the next few hours."

      "I may not be a master of the cauldron but I know enough about certain potions, Dumbledore," the Minister said. "The activating ingredient is extinct. Has been for almost 100 years."

      "A supply has recently been discovered. Severus and his team should be back-"

      "Severus! You mean to say you sent _Severus Snape_ to acquire the Dawn's Glory?" Fudge examined his erstwhile friend as though he'd lost what little of his mind remained. "You sent a _Death Eater_ to find an ingredient to save one of the Dark Lord's _victims_?"

      "Severus is no more a Death Eater than I am, Fudge."

      Albus' voice took on a hard edge. The tone warned anyone that they trod on dangerous ground. Fudge, apparently, failed to catch the warning.

      "The man is a menace. More than one parent has petitioned me to have him removed from this school."

      Vernon Dursley thrust himself back into the conversation.

      "Not only is this professor they sent the one responsible for Harry's illness, but he's got two other students with him. This man has put a slipshod teacher and two students in charge of Harry Potter's life."

      "The one responsible--I must say, Albus, I am most disappointed. The situation is far worse than I'd imagined."

      "Oh, it's worse than your darkest nightmares," Vernon said, " and it's only going to get worse, especially if I have any say in the matter. You lot will pay for what's happened to that brat. You'll pay until your purses squeal."

      "Now see here, who are you to be demanding such things as payment?"

      "Heaven knows I wish I weren't," Petunia said, "but that little freak is my sister's son. We never asked to take him in. Vernon opened the front door to bring in the milk and paper and tripped over the dirty, scarred thing. He's been tied around our necks like an iron ball and chain ever since."

      "And it's about time we got something for all our hard work," Vernon said.

      "What kind of animals are you? Demanding a reward for doing the decent thing," Molly Weasley said. "And to speak of your own sister's son that way. Your own flesh and blood!"

      "That freak is no blood of mine," Vernon glowered.

      "Nor mine," Petunia said before anyone could say another word. Her voice dripped more potent venom than the deadliest viper. "He's my precious sister's get, not my own. If she wanted him raised by one of your kind, she should have arranged for it before blowing herself up. There is not one drop of freakish magic blood in my son or me. When Harry dies, it dies with him."

###

      Ron Weasley glared poisonous daggers at the arguing adults. Though the argument raged on the far side of the chamber, they could not miss hearing every word.

      "Bloody hell, I've half a mind to turn them all into snakes."

      "Please don't," Draco said. "I happen to _like_ snakes."

      Ron grimaced. "Yeah, well, so does Harry. Bloody 'ell. You're right. A snake wouldn't be low enough."

      Malfoy's expression turned distinctly _Slytherin_. Narrowed eyes studied the offending adults with a particular attention to detail.

      "I do agree they deserve a curse," he said.

      "We could change them all into slimy slugs."

      Draco's mouth arched upwards into a vague smile. His gray eyes danced. "You wand isn't broken, is it?"

      "No, so don't get me angry, Malfoy. My spell won't backfire this time."

      Draco waved away the toothless threat. "What say we save our disagreements for later and find a suitable reward for Potter's family?"

      Ron looked ready to continue the comfortably familiar sniping. Instead, he released a hard breath that vibrated his lips and murmured, "Agreed."

      They bandied ideas back and forth for five minutes before Draco stopped, mid-sentence, and smiled. The last time Ron had seen that particular expression on Malfoy's face had been during their second year at Hogwarts. Ron and Harry had entered the Slytherin common room, their appearances changed by the polyjuice potion, in hopes of learning the name of the Heir of Slytherin. The two Gryffindors heard the pale boy voice a wish for the first dead "mudblood" to be Hermione Granger.

      His smile had been uniquely vindictive, then and now.

      "Why are you grinning like that?"

      "I know the perfect curse."

      "What is it?"

      "My father taught it to me, and _she_," he pointed toward Petunia Dursley with his chin, "gave me the idea."

      "Well, you obviously don't mean to tell me what it is, so cast the damn thing and be done with it."

      "It's as well the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor, Weasley," Draco Malfoy said as he slid his wand from the sleeve of his robe. "As impatient as you are and with that temper, you wouldn't have lasted a day in Slytherin."

      After a final look to be certain that all the adults were occupied with their very loud argument, the pale boy murmured a long, complicated spell beneath his breath. Ron, standing only a foot away, heard only a sibilant whisper.

      Weasley waited and watched, breathless. He wanted the rush of gratification guaranteed to come when the Muggles got what was coming to them. He waited. And waited.

      "Nothing's happening," he said, to be answered by a truly malicious snicker.

      Draco's wand disappeared back up his sleeve.

      "Yet."

      "What do you mean, 'yet'?"

      "Precisely that. Think about it a moment, Weasley. Even you should be able to figure it out. Sure, we could turn them to slugs, grubs, or monkey-faced jackasses. Dumbledore or one of the other wizards might enjoy it, might even wish they could've done it themselves, but they'll be forced to counteract any curse we use. Most of them are do-gooding _Gryffindors_, after all. The incantation I used--let's just say it's a delayed-reaction curse."

      "Dammit, Malfoy, what did you bloody well _do_?"

      Draco's voice oozed malevolent satisfaction. "I'll say only this: find some way to be nearby during the next new moon. The magical blood that Muggle bitch is so proud to deny is going to brighten up her day. Her _and_ her lard of a son."

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

_To be notified of new posts, join us at: __potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com_

_A/N: Pray thou forgivest me, my lowly subjects--er, I mean loyal fans--for the dire delay in posting of this most abominably late chapter. Blame real life, college finals, my great-nephew's wedding, viral laryngitis. Take heart in the fact that you are not alone in your ire--my supervisor likewise finds the situation most irksome._

_My roommate isn't too thrilled with it, either, but she's a real gem! She made me a fruit smoothie when I had no voice and my throat was too sore to take deep breaths. How great is that??? I still sound like a frog that's been marched over by a company of drunken soldiers wearing combat boots, but I'm slowly getting better._

**Chapter 18**

      Another facet of the most recent switch: a heavy gray blanket replaced the once abundant sunlight. Thunderclouds scuttled overhead, their undersides low enough to scrape the topmost leaves of the tallest trees within sight. Air pressure squeezed their heads hard enough to make their ears ache and pop.

      Jagged bolts of lightning shot across the sky in three directions, centered in the clouds almost directly overhead. Every hair stood away from their skin. Their flesh pimpled and tingled at the closeness of the deadly power. The air smelled of ozone and heat.

      The feline snarl sounded again, closer. The weather, though threatening, became the lesser of the two dangers.

      Wand at the ready, Hermione held her wind-whipped hair back from her face with her free hand and angled her body to lessen the impact of gale-force winds. Loose hairs, many of them blackened and curled by the firetrap outside the chamber gates, popped her face and stung her cheeks.

      "Your cat, Neville?"

      Neville swallowed. "Sounds like it."

      The trio stared around the area. They stood at a pentagonal junction between five floral beds. The lowest wall, to their right, reached Snape's shoulder. The tallest, at their rear, stretched five times his height.

      One bed overflowed with night-blooming purple jasmine. The next plot over held ancient magnolia trees, with flat, oval leaves the size of a man's torso and limbs heavy with pale white blossoms. The two distinct fragrances melded into a particularly heavy and inescapable aroma.

      Neville gagged and covered his mouth even as Hermione choked on the overpowering combination. Golden pollen, kicked up by the storm, swirled around them like a dancing cloud of fairy dust.

      "If predators or lightning bolts don't get us," she said, "the flower pollen will."

      "Might I suggest," said Snape, "we move away from the area before either event can happen?"

      "Too late."

      Snape followed Longbottom's frozen gaze.

      Hermione sucked in a hard breath.

      "It's . . . it's . . . well, it's not as big as I'd thought."

      Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow. "That is your 'huge cat,' Mr. Longbottom?"

      Hermione lowered her wand and added, "It's barely bigger than Mrs. Norris."

      "No, that isn't the same kind of cat I saw before." Neville bristled with indignation. "The other one was tall enough to saddle and ride."

      The cat in question crouched on a wall some fifteen feet over their heads. Its size and markings resembled those of an ocelot, the only differences being a change between the ocelot's golden background to a more silvery-blue hue and a tight crown of curly black fur between its tall, tuffed ears.

      "Considering the example set for us by the rabbits," Severus Snape said even as the first fat drops of rain stained the walkway, "I recommend that we don't judge anything by size or appearance alone."

      "Agreed," Hermione Granger said. "And might I add, evading a prolonged fight is preferable to enduring one, especially one in the middle of a storm."

      "I couldn't have said it better myself."

      The cat, downwind of the trio, flattened its ears and streamlined itself against the hard gusts. Its nose flared and twitched. The beast wrinkled its nose, sneezed three times, and coughed a feline obscenity. Its tongue worked as though to rid its mouth of a foul taste.

      "I suppose he doesn't care for the way we smell," Hermione said. "Probably the rose scent of the Burn-Be-Gone."

      "If that is the case," Snape said, "I withdraw my complaint about the fragrance." The professor waved the students to keep going while he guarded their backs. "Move away, the pair of you."

      "Uhhh . . . Hermione?" Neville's attention, surprisingly, was not on the cat in front of Snape but rather somewhere toward their rear. "Cats don't hunt in packs . . . do they?"

      "They're called 'prides,' Neville," Hermione answered. "Like a lion pride. And yes, while the majority of feline species are solitary hunters, they do sometimes hunt together. Why?"

      Neville pointed over her left shoulder and replied, "Because there are two more on the next bed over, headed this way."

      Hermione followed his gesture. For a moment, she saw nothing. A stray gust lifted the fat green leaves of a magnolia tree. Movement brought her gaze to where two black-spotted silver cats stalked them from behind.

      "If they're anything like lions," Hermione reckoned, "they mean to encircle us, trap us between them, and cut out the weakest."

      Snape readied his wand and said, "Then might I suggest we get _out_ of the trap before they close in?"

      "They have the advantage of height," Hermione pointed out, even as the two more distant felines closed the distance between them, "not to mention intimate knowledge of the terrain."

      "We have brains and magic. I recommend we use both."

      "A good running stride would help," Longbottom said.

      "My thoughts exactly."

      The three humans took off running. Packs flapping against his back, Snape wrangled his younger charges into a tight group ahead of him even as he struggled to track the three stalking felines.

      One of the cats leapt onto the walkway ahead of them, blocking the left path. Hermione swished her wand and shouted, "_Stupefy!_"

      She blinked. The cat failed to fall. The sole result of her spell was a shower of sparks off the cat's fur.

      "_Petrificus!_" Snape shouted. The spell had no more effect on the creature at their rear than Hermione's spell had on the one ahead. "Damn! They're magic-resistant!"

      "Keep trying! One may get through!"

      "_Petrificus totalis!_" Snape called. Again, the spell enraged the felines with harmless bursts of light. "They're gaining on us! We need to get to higher ground, where they can't fall on us from above. Head up!"

      Snape and Hermione shinnied up the nearest ladder. Neville, his attention on the cats behind him, overshot the ascent. Snape snatched the boy by the collar and yanked him off the walkway an instant ahead of a pouncing hunter. The cat spat its frustration and turned mid-leap. A swipe of its open claws missed its prey's leg by no more than an inch.

      "Longbottom, where in Merlin's name are you going? Our only chance is to stay together."

      The cat gathered its hindquarters, set its balance, and leaped.

      Neville, voice high with anxiety, shouted out the first spell that came to mind. The cat screamed, thrashed, and fell away. Seeing the boy's success, his companions quickly fired off the only spell thus far successful against the ocelot-like beasts. First one then the other, the remaining two hunters collapsed to the walkway.

      Overbalanced by his attempts to aid Neville's struggles to find foot and handholds on the ladder, Severus Snape tottered on the edge of the raised plant bed. Black-robed arms cartwheeled wildly before the Potions Master lost his balance and toppled onto the spongy loam.

      Down on the walkway, the trio of cats flopped around. They yowled, hissed, and snarled but were, for the moment, harmless.

      Hermione clung to the ladder and ogled her yearmate, panted for breath, and wheezed, "Jelly legs? We're wracking our brains for advanced spells and you hit it with _jelly legs?_"

      A hot flush rose on Longbottom's cheeks. He, too, dragged in great lungfuls of air.

      "It worked, didn't it?"

      Freed of the immediate danger, Hermione looked around. "Professor Snape?"

      "Get me out of here!"

      The students climbed ladder and peered over the top of the border. In the bed below, Severus Snape muttered invectives and wrestled with a pasta knot of purple-leafed vines that seemed determined to curl around him.

      Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom burst into laughter before they could moderate the noise.

      "_Gryffindors._" Snape hissed the word as though it were the vilest curse--to him, perhaps, it was. Lip curled in disgust, he turned away from them and attacked the growth that bound his legs. "You find this funny, do you?"

      "Professor," Hermione held up a cautioning hand, "don't move."

      "Ms. Granger," Snape took no heed of the student's warning and continued to wrestle with the vines, "I grow rapidly weary of your-"

      "I said _don't move_!"

      Snape froze, his hands filled with purple leaves attached to lavender stems as thick around as his largest finger. As many times as the two students had shocked him with their rudeness, he should by now be quite accustomed to the feeling. The Potions Master blinked away his disbelief and opened his mouth to deduct 50 points from Gryffindor.

      Straddling the wall in a most unladylike manner, the teenage witch pushed aside a strand of purple-leaf vine with the tip of her wand. She treated the greenery with a blend of concern and fear.

      A Slytherin he might be and an ardent opposite of his Gryffindor companions, but Severus Snape could never be described as stupid. Once kicked out of his pique by her unorthodox treatment, he gave more attention to his surroundings, in particular the foliage with which she took such extreme care.

      Neville Longbottom sat astride the wall facing his yearmate. Sight of the boy donning a pair or dragonhide gloves cinched the seriousness of the matter.

      "Vulcan's vine," Hermione reported, "isn't dangerous in itself, at least not under normal conditions, but when near its reproductive cycle, which this one is, the thorns are unsafe, particularly to any species with magical ability."

      "If you do not mind," Snape ground each individual word between his teeth even as he made every effort not to move his plant-tangled limbs, "your time would be better spent freeing me rather than reading back a lecture I myself gave to you in your second year."

      "One bright point in all of this," she replied. "You now have conclusive evidence that even Gryffindors listen in your classes."

      The final vine slipped away, leaving Snape free to escape the particularly dangerous area.

      "Now that I am successfully extracted," Snape said as he made his way down the outside face of the plant bed, "let us continue the search."

      "Professor?" Neville pointed with a shaky finger. "Your finger."

      Paused before taking the final step down to the pathway, Snape eyed the thin line visible along the outside of his left index finger. A short string of scarlet beads marked the tear in his insipid skin. He blew out a hard breath, completed his descent, and sank to the ground.

      Hermione leaped the final distance to the crushed shell path. She dived for the larger of the two packs, unknotted the strings, and buried her head in the open mouth. Her voice was muffled but stern.

      "Neville. Get a fire going and fill the smaller cauldron with water."

      "I saw suckerfish moss in the next bed over. I'll get some."

      "Suckerfish moss will not extract the oil from the cut," Snape said.

      "No, it won't," Longbottom agreed even as he trotted across the pathway, climbed the four stone steps, and leaned over the limestone wall around the adjoining bed. The moss in question coated the inner side of the barrier like a thick, pea-green, spongy carpet. "But it will slow it down until we can brew the antidote."

      "Unless you _want_ to spend the next few months as a squib?" Hermione asked.

      Severus Snape ended the dialogue in typical Slytherin fashion.

      "Dammit!"

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

_To be notified of new posts, join us at: __potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com_

_A/N: Pray thou forgivest me, my lowly subjects--er, I mean loyal fans--for the dire delay in posting of this most abominably late chapter. I'm now in the new condo--It's mine all mine!!! Now if it would only get cold enough in Dallas to justify a fire in the fireplace..._

_A/N #2: The Gender Genie is: WRONG!_

Chapter 19 

      "Enough!" Madame Pomfrey's hiss cut through the voices that sought to out-shout one another, as though volume would win the dispute faster than valid points of argument. "I will not have my hospital, _or_ my patient, disturbed by all this bickering. Take it elsewhere if you must, but I will not have it here."

      Petunia Dursley thrust her horsy face forward.

      "Now see here-"

      Poppy slashed the air with her hand. "No, _you_ see here. This is my area of expertise, and I am telling you, as one who has treated more injuries, curses, and illnesses on that boy than any other person alive. If you take him away from Hogwarts, you will be sentencing him to death."

      "Surely the doctors at St. Mungo's-" Fudge countered.

      "Are the best in the world, no doubt," Pomfrey cut in, "but they are not _here_, close to the antidote. And they can do no more for him that I'm doing already."

      Cornelius Fudge patted the air in a "there-there" motion. The condescending gesture raised Poppy's professional hackles even more.

      "You are a competent medi-witch, certainly, else you would not be responsible for the care of so many of our children, but surely St. Mungo's could do more for the lad than you can here. It stands to reason-"

      Albus Dumbledore stepped forward and said, "The recovery party will be back before sunset with the Dawn's Glory. Whatever else you might think of Professor Snape, you cannot deny that he is a Master of Potions and one of the few wizards in the world who can brew the antidote to this curse."

      "Let him brew the antidote here, then." Fudge attempted a desperate compromise. "He can take it to the boy in London."

      "There would not be enough time. For the love of Merlin, Cornelius, you must think this through. If you take Harry away, we won't be able to get it to him in time. He will die."

      "One hour." Molly Weasley pointed to the snow-lined windows, toward the low-riding sun. "It's only one hour until sunset. Wait until then. If they haven't returned at that point, it will be too late and it won't matter where he rests."

      "One hour. That sounds reasonable," Fudge said.

      Vernon Dursley bellowed, "Not to me. I want that boy moved. Now. This instant, do you here?"

      "Dursley-"

      "Am I or am I not the boy's legal guardian?" the Muggle said. "Well?"

      "You are," Albus admitted. The "unfortunately" went unvoiced but heard by those present nevertheless.

      "Then as his legal guardian, I say move him to your finest medical facility, wherever in the world that might be."

      Fudge raised beseeching eyes to his old friend and held out his arms in surrender.

      "Albus, what can I do? They are his guardians. They have the final say in this matter." Fudge sighed. He wiped his hands on his robes even as he wiped himself clean of the responsibility. "We cannot go against the express wishes of his guardians. Harry Potter will be moved immediately to St. Mungo's where I will personally see to it that he gets the best of care for as long as the poor boy lives."

      Pomfrey deliberately placed herself between the other adults and her patient's bed. She crossed her arms over her chest, wand in hand, and stared straight into the eyes of Cornelius Fudge.

      "He stays right here."

      Fudge's voice dripped with unctuous cordiality. "Madame Pomfrey. Surely you don't mean to-"

      "I most certainly do. You will not remove that boy from my care until every shred of hope for an antidote is lost."

      Vernon took a single step forward. "You have no say-"

      Pomfrey's arm shot out. Her wand tip stabbed the air, pointed directly at Vernon Dursley's throat. His adam's apple bobbled with each convulsive swallow. A visible shudder ran from foot to crown, jiggling his flabby flesh like a tidal wave flowing across a surf.

      "This gives me every say," she said.

      "Albus," Fudge pleaded, "_do_ something."

      "What would you have me do, Cornelius? Fight her? I'm afraid I cannot do that." Dumbledore stepped up to Pomfrey's left side. "You see, I happen to agree with her. In any confrontation I would, however reluctantly, stand at her side."

      McGonagall drew her own wand. The Master of Transfiguration moved to fill the space on the medi-witch's right side.

      "As would I," she said.

      Fudge sputtered and stared from one grimly determined face to another.

      "Now see here! Dumbledore! McGonagall! You can't win. Persist in this--this stubborn rebellion, and I will have no choice but to summon the aurors."

      "If you do that, Fudge," Arthur Weasley said even as he and his wife added their presence to the human barrier, "I will make certain the entire wizarding world sees you as the one responsible for his death. Not the Death Eaters who cast the curse. Not the Dursleys. _You_."

      The Minister's mouth dropped further open. He opened and closed it three times before any sound would emerge. His first words were more sputter than speech.

      "You wouldn't _dare_-"

      "I may not be in the upper levels of the Ministry, but I do carry a fair amount of power and influence in my own right, enough to bring every eye to bear upon you. I will not allow the details of this atrocity to remain secret. The wizarding world will know who ordered The Boy Who Lived removed from the one area where a possible cure might be found. The entire wizarding world--and every voting witch or wizard in it--will know every sordid detail of this tragedy."

      "But--his guardians--"

      "As Minister of Magic, you can overrule them," Dumbledore said. "You have the power to assume responsibility for the boy's welfare. Use it, Cornelius. It is your only hope of coming through this scandal intact."

      "If you try it," Vernon vowed, "I will hound you through every wizard court I possibly can. I might even take it into our _real_ courts, as well."

      Fudge gulped like a boated fish. "What?"

      The Minister paled to the color of curdled milk. Dursley sensed a weakness and pounced.

      "You heard me. How would you like to be the one responsible for exposing your whole, sordid, tatty little community to the rest of the world?"

###

      Two pale faces peered around the edge of the shielding curtain. Before them, a distinct battle line had been drawn between the Muggles and the Hogwarts wizards, with the Minister of Magic caught dithering between them. Fudge stumbled back and forth, as though drawn by strings toward each argument point as it was made.

      "If Fudge calls the aurors," Ron Weasley said, "this could get dicey." He looked around their end of the hospital wing as though some miracle escape route would suddenly appear. "Any suggestions?"

      "We can't let them take Potter away," Draco answered. "Any chance he has is here at Hogwarts."

      "If only we knew how to apparate."

      "It wouldn't work inside Hogwarts' defenses, remember? We've both heard Granger say it often enough. You can't apparate on school grounds."

      A hazy glaze filled Ron Weasley's eyes. "_We_ can't . . ."

      Malfoy blinked. "What?"

      Ron spoke aloud, more to himself than to his companion. Voicing his thoughts gave them more depth.

      "House elves can move about the castle despite the anti-apparition barriers." A dawning expression of hope brought color to the skin beneath a wealth of freckles. "Dobby could take Harry someplace where Fudge and the others can't find him."

      "Dobby? Our old house elf?" Draco said. "Father said he died."

      Ron shook his head. "Harry tricked Lucius Malfoy into giving him a sock back at the end of second year. Dobby is free. Dumbledore gave him a job here at the school."

      "Your idea is insane, Weasley, but it just might work." Draco turned toward a bit of empty space and called softly, "Dobby. Come here."

      A haze of silver smoke coalesced into a wrinkled, familiar form. Dobby the house elf stood before them, clad in a maroon sweater and pink exercise leggings. A rainbow-striped muffler wound a half-dozen times around his throat; even so, its tasseled ends trailed to the floor both in front and behind. On his head he wore a blue-plaid knit cap complete with frazzled pompom and holes for his oversized ears. Fuzzy white bunny slippers covered his oversized feet.

      Black mourning bands encircled the elf's arms. Large round eyes, liquid with emotion, tipped up.

      "Dobby is here, sirs. How can he serve you?"

      "We need your help, Dobby," Ron said. "_Harry_ needs your help."

      "Dobby heard what happened that night in the Dark Forest. He has been most aggrieved, sir. If there is _anything_ Dobby can do to help Harry Potter, you have but to ask."

      Fudge's voice rose over Madame Pomfrey's continued arguments. "Move out of the way, all of you. This rebellion is insane. I have no choice but to do as his guardians wish. Move or I will call the aurors and have you all arrested!"

      "No time for long explanations." Ron knelt in front of the trembling elf. "They want to take Harry to St. Mungo's. This would be bad."

      The elf twisted the forward-flowing end of his muffler into a tight knot. He shuffled from one bunny-slippered foot to the other.

      "Dobby doesn't understand, sir. St. Mungo's is a fine hospital. Dobby knows some of the house elves who work there. They would take good care of Harry Potter."

      "But the only cure is here, at Hogwarts," Draco said. "If they take Potter away, we'd never get it to him in time. Potter has to stay at Hogwarts until after sundown."

      Dobby studied Draco Malfoy with a suspicious eye before turning to Ron Weasley. "Is this true, sir?"

      "Yes, Dobby. It is."

      The house elf turned his back to them and gave the adults a particularly vicious glare.

      "Dobby will stop them."

      "No, elf," Draco objected. "We don't want you to fight. We want you to move Potter to another location. Get him away. Hide him somewhere in the school until Professor Snape and the others get back with the ingredient they need for the antidote. Can you do that?"

      Dobby nodded, his large ears flapping. "Dobby will do it, sir. Dobby will hide Harry Potter until you call him back."

      Ron moved to the edge of the bed and sandwiched Harry's hand between his own. "Take me, too."

      Draco stepped back to distance himself from the transferring magic.

      "I'll stay here and keep an eye on things."

      Ron nodded. "Call for Dobby when Snape has the antidote ready."

      Malfoy studied the unconscious nemesis. As the trio--Dobby, Weasley, and Potter--disappeared in a swirl of silver mist, along with the bed and the side table lined with medicines, he whispered, "Take care of him, Weasley."

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

_To be notified of new posts, join us at: __potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com_

_A/N: Hey, I got this one out faster than I thought. Just so you all know, typing with a broken arm is NOT EASY, especially when it's your main writing arm! Word of advice--NEVER run to catch the train, especially when you're wearing open-backed sandals that have a tendency to fly off your feet when moving at high speed._

Chapter 20 

      Severus Snape had accepted the treatment for Vulcan's vine infection with typical ill grace. He downed the hot, bitter brew even as the atrium changed once more, taking the rain and wind with it.

Her arm still outstretched to hand the cup to Snape, direct beams of sunlight struck Hermione squarely in the eyes. The bright, cloudless void overhead created an instant, rhythmic throbbing behind her watery eyes.

      "I don't suppose you could have made it taste more foul, Ms. Granger? A pinch of sulfur, perhaps? You might have tossed in one of Mr. Longbottom's dirty socks to increase its palatability."

      "Which would you prefer, Professor?" she asked even as he tossed the small pewter cup to the ground. The lingering effects of the potion fumes over which she'd hunched in order to protect their fire from the storm winds did nothing to ease her aching head. "Pleasant taste or fast recovery?"

      Snape grumbled but said nothing more about the rancid taste of the drought.

      "How do you feel, sir?" Neville asked.

"How do you expect me to feel, boy? Stop asking foolish questions and let's finish what we started. At the moment, I want nothing more than to be done with this entire incident and sink into my own bed for a weeklong sleep."

      Snape levered himself off the ground, settled his now-filthy robes around him, and marched down the walkway with only a hint of wobble in his long stride. Behind him, the two students hurriedly gathered their belongings and trotted to catch up.

      Hermione caught the Potions Master fingering his wand. Ignoring her own illness, she asked, "And your magic?"

      "Weakened, obviously." A hint of begrudged gratitude slipped into his voice before he could stop it. "But not gone altogether." He looked around at the newest landscape. "Arid. Desert environment. Not very promising. Mr. Longbottom, does anything here look familiar?"

      "No, Professor. I was never in a desert section."

      Snape called a halt at the next junction, this one almost as large as a Quiddich pitch, with small pedestals of decorative plants and floral-bedecked gazebos scattered around the area. Hermione sank onto one of a decorative stone bench and rummaged through her pack until she came to a mild headache potion. By the time she'd downed enough to erase the throbbing behind her eyes, Snape had climbed onto the tallest visible bed to study their surroundings. He carefully avoided the thorny arms of various tall cacti as he turned in a tight circle, hands raised to shield his eyes from the harsh sun.

One minute later, sweaty and covered in fine, wind-blown sand, he was once more at ground level.

"That way," he said, pointing toward a crushed shell pathway on their right. "I saw a series of beds some three intersections away. They look to be the right climate to grow Dawn's Glory."

      The Potions Master took three steps, and his smaller companions seven each, before he stopped and muttered, "What's that?"

      Snape's question, voiced more to himself than to his young cohorts, still drew their attention. Hermione followed the professor's gaze but saw only blue, open sky. A moment later, something moved--blue on blue against the late afternoon heavens. She listened in vain for any sounds.

      "Whatever it is," she commented as she shaded her eyes against the slanted rays of afternoon sunlight, "it's perfectly camouflaged."

      "Maybe we should find some shelter until we're sure it's gone," Neville said, his own attention bouncing between the seemingly clear sky overhead and the expanse of space around them.

      "An excellent suggestion, Mr. Longbottom, except for one point. Note the position of the sun. We have at most one hour to begin brewing the antidote. We don't have _time_ to hide from something that may or may not be dangerous."

      Hermione, her attention still cast skyward, turned to study the air behind them. A hint of movement and a growing pressure were her only warnings.

      "Get down!"

      Hermione threw herself toward the sod even as something large grabbed her backpack. Within moments, she dangled a dozen feet off the ground, her feet kicking open air, rising higher with every passing second. The rush of wind pushed back Snape's angry roar and Neville's horrified cry.

      The young witch struggled to look up, to see the thing that carried her aloft. Her own hair hampered her efforts, whipping unrestrained across her face. She caught a glimpse of blue, thin, leathery wings, laced with thready veins. At each joint was a clump of curled appendages, possibly rudimentary fingers. The creature had a draconic neck that bobbed with the capricious wind currents. She could see only the underside of the slightly darker jaw and the protrusions that marked very long, serrated teeth.

      Sobbing, Hermione struggled to think around her terror. Should she cling to the pack to keep from falling dozens of meters to the ground or slip free in order to escape from a beast she thought quite likely to be a carnivore? She had two choices--die in a fall or be ripped apart as a meal.

      The aerial hunter's fight path carried it toward one of the higher growing beds--not _directly_ over but close enough to raise her hopes.

Frantic, Hermione worked her left arm free of its backpack strap, even as she clung desperately to the right strap. The beast squawked, its cry worse than rusty nails against sheet metal. Wings beat hard to bring them back level. Hermione's swinging weight shifted the creature's flight path enough to bring it over the target tower.

Though still a dizzying distance above solid ground, she was unlikely to get a better chance. With a cry of blended prayer and terror, Hermione released the strap and let herself fall.

TBC


	21. Chapter 21

To be notified of new posts, join us at: _potter_by_meercat-subscribe@yahoogroups.com_

_A/N: This chapter contains graphic images of Harry's condition that some might find disturbing. In a way, it's a catharsis for me. During my physical therapy session this week for my arm (for those of you who don't know, I broke it last month), I sat next to a gentleman recovering from severe burns on his right forearm and hand. I won't describe his injuries except to say they were horrific, yet he still had the most positive, I'm-going-to-get-through-this attitude. The man was most certainly a Gryffindor at heart. Still, the sight of his injuries left me shaken. This chapter is my way of dealing with that._

_You also must remember who cast the Devourers Curse and why. Would Lucius Malfoy let anyone simply slip away in silent slumber?_

Chapter 21

      Draco Malfoy lounged in the only chair left behind the cloth partitions. He held a battered copy of _Quiddich World_, the base of its spine propped on a bent knee, open to an article on the (then) most recently developed moves to evade a bludger. Not one word of it had he bothered to read. All of his attention, if not his vision, was locked on the argument that raged between wizards and muggles.

      "You all fight it out amongst yourselves," Madame Pomfrey said at last. Draco watched Madame Pomfrey's silhouette against the dividing screen throw up its hand in defeat. "I have a patient to tend to."

      Having set the stage as best he could, Draco relaxed even as he braced himself for the oncoming confrontation.

      The mediwitch appeared around the partition. She took one look at the empty space and shouted, "Gracious!"

      Footsteps rushed forward. Someone shoved the screens against the wall. The adults stared at the blank space where a bed, chair, and side tables once rested. Only slight indentations in the floor, worn into the stone over the ages since Hogwarts' creation, remained to show the furniture had ever been there.

      Dumbledore blinked twice before a hint of admiration lightened his expression and his stance shifted a fraction with released tension. Minerva McGonagall stared at the empty space. Madame Pomfrey gasped and stared around the room, as though expecting to find her patient moved to another part of the chamber. Arthur and Molly Weasley clung to one another and turned to Dumbledore for answers. Cornelius Fudge gaped like a land-stranded fish.

      Vernon Dursley turned an interesting shade of puce. He glowered at Malfoy and demanded, "Potter--where is he?"

      "Not here," Draco drawled, speaking as one might to a slow child. "Obviously."

      Angered by his failure to intimidate the adults, Dursley rounded on the slender, pale, seemingly harmless teenager. Fists clenched, he stomped forward and roared, "Where is he, boy? Speak up! You'll tell me where he's gone or I'll-"

      Draco lowered the magazine to reveal the shaft of his wand, it's point aimed directly at the muggle's flabby stomach. The teen didn't even bother to shift in his chair. The wand, and a promise of mayhem bright in his pale eyes, spoke for him. Behind Dursley, the Hogwarts wizards lowered their own wands and halted their automatic rush to defend a student. Petunia wrung her hands and cringed away, even as Fudge shilly-shallied.

      Vernon stumbled to a stop and leaned back, terrified as always by any threat of magic.

      His voice, silky sweet, Draco said, "You were saying?"

      "Be calm, everyone." Dumbledore sought one final time to reconcile the parties involved. "Arguing amongst ourselves serves no purpose. We all want what is best for Harry." The Headmaster of Hogwarts stared at Vernon and Petunia over the top of his half-moon glasses. "I assume no one argues with that?"

      The lie was obvious even as Petunia answered, "No. No, of course not."

      "Cornelius?"

      "Of course not, Albus. The boy is, after all, a hero. A symbol for light magic."

      "That he is."

      Molly Weasley asked the question on every adult mind. "But where _is_ he?"

      "Ask him." Vernon jabbed the air in Draco's direction. "He'll know. And if he won't answer you, give him to me. I'll get it out of him, every word."

      Draco rose from his chair with a languid grace made all the more threatening by its slow, precise economy of motion. The magazine slid to the floor, face-up to an advertisement for a mess-removing, self-sweeping broom.

      "Don't threaten me, Dursley. You won't like the consequences."

      "I know something of your laws. Had to, if only to protect my family. What could your lot possibly do to me?"

      "Trust me on this, Muggle," Draco crooned. "You don't want the attention of someone like my father. He really is not a nice wizard. Not a nice wizard a'tall."

      "True. Oh yes," Fudge said. "Very true."

      A shudder shook the Minister of Magic's frame and made his robes ripple all the way to the hem. Fear flashed across his face. Fudge's reaction did more to intimidate the Dursleys than any verbal statement of fact.

      "Before you challenge him," Arthur Weasley added the final convincing points, "you should know that Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father, is the dark wizard who cast the curse at Professor Snape, the same curse that Harry so courageously intercepted. The man loathes muggles such as yourself with a passion--considers them to be less than human--and would leap at any excuse to hurt or kill one for sport. He is not above using darkest magic to get what he wants. And he never, _ever_, forgets a slight to his pureblood family honor. An attack on his only son might well qualify, don't you agree?"

      Draco bit back a scathing comment, something along the line that his father didn't care enough to stop a Death Eater from threatening "his only son" with the Killing Curse. His face remained a blank canvas, revealing nothing. Even so, judging by Dumbledore's sympathetic glance, the Headmaster understood.

      "What's to say, then," Dursley grasped for any straw to support his argument, "this boy isn't responsible for the br--for Potter's disappearance? Maybe--maybe he found some way to sneak his father in, and he took him, along with the only witness."

      Draco fought the urge to squirm under the combined, intense gazes of every adult in the room. Some of them were witches and wizards with a five-year history of authority over him. Habit alone would have made him wiggle.

      "Draco?" Dumbledore asked. "Where is Harry Potter?"

      "And my son," Molly Weasley added.

      "How would _I_ know? I've been here sitting listening to you lot fight amongst yourselves like two packs of dogs over a single bone. Turned around and he was gone." A mischievous light brightened Malfoy's pale eyes. Any opportunity to get a Gryffindor into trouble could not be overlooked. "Maybe Weasley did something."

###

      Ronald Weasley looked around and nodded, satisfied.

      Dobby had chosen a pentagonal chamber with a single door, arched ceiling, and no windows. Age-faded tapestries, each depicting a House of Hogwarts, covered four of the walls; the fireplace and door occupied the fifth. Overall, the room was smaller than the Gryffindor fifth-year dorm but large enough to hold the required furniture and persons. A fire crackled in the hearth, providing adequate heat and light. Wall sconces mounted between each tapestry stood ready to add further illumination if necessary.

      A wave of the house elf's hand had cleared away every trace of dust, lint, or cobwebs.

      "Perfect. Thank you, Dobby."

      "Dobby is glad to help, sir."

      The house elf snapped his fingers. An oval mahogany table appeared between the bed and the fireplace. Its surface groaned under the weight of a dozen covered dishes and lidded containers. The heady scents of warm bread fresh from the oven and hot, red meat wafted across the room. Ron was certain he caught a whiff of butterbeer from one of the covered tankards.

      "In case you should get hungry while we wait, sir."

      "Not 'we,' Dobby. Me. You can go now. We'll be fine here until Draco calls us back."

      Dobby stared at him, his expression one of disbelief. Liquid pools of disappointment filled his overlarge eyes.

      "Go? You want Dobby to go? But Dobby wants to stay, sir, and help tend Harry Potter."

      Ron steeled himself against the house elf's kicked-puppy look.

      "Thanks. I do appreciate it, but you need to get back. If the head elf reports you missing to Dumbledore, the Headmaster might suss out how we moved Harry. We can't risk it." Seeing the unmasked disappointment on the house elf's face, down to ears that drooped flat on his bony shoulders, Ron said, "If I need help, I'll call. Promise."

      Wide eyes, cautiously hopeful, tipped up. "Promise? You'll call Dobby?"

      "I promise, Dobby. I'll call."

      Dobby sighed, saddened but reassured. He vanished in a cloud of silver mist.

      Ron sighed, rubbed his face from hairline to jaw, and instantly regretted sending the elf away. At least with Dobby, he'd have someone to talk to, as well as someone to run off and get something if he needed it. He sighed again, harder, and reminded himself that he could always call Dobby back if need be.

      He took a moment to inspect the dishes and decided that, however appetizing they might be, he wasn't really hungry at the moment. He cast a keep-warm charm on each covered dish before returning the chair at his friend's bedside. He gathered Harry's hand into his and settled in for an hour's wait.

      Within moments, he knew. Something was not right. He separated their hands and looked down.

      The liquid, viscous and warm, clung to his fingers. Ron raised his hand to his nose and breathed deep. A sharp, metallic odor stuck in the back of his throat. He choked and turned away.

      "Blood? But how-"

      Turning his mind back, he recalled some things Hermione had said at the start of their library search for a cure to Harry's condition. He'd listened with only half an ear, more from habit than anything else, as she described what Harry would face over the course of his illness.

      _"The curse devours the organ with the dark magic then attacks all the organs that contain magic,"_ she'd said. _"In Harry's case, the scar on his forehead is the first foothold."_

      Ron carried the idea forward in his own mind. _Harry's skin. The first target of the curse will be his skin. If that's so then . . . shouldn't there be some sign of it by now?_

      Ron drew his wand and, with a deliberate swish-and-flick, said, "_Finite incantatum_."

      The air around Harry shimmered but the image remained unchanged. Still, the spark proved to Ron that something was indeed there. He tightened his grip and recast the spell, putting every ounce of determination into his voice.

      "_Finite incantatum_."

      Again he saw the shimmer, definitely stronger, but no end to the illusion. Harry still looked feverish and weak but not dying, with no hint of a bleeding injury.

      "Dammit, I can't tend him if I can't _see_ him. _FINITE INCANTATUM!_"

      The chimera charm vanished. Ron Weasley yelled and fell back against the wall, repulsed by the wreck in the bed. His wand fell to the floor to clatter against the ancient wood.

      Only by the vaguest of resemblance--the overall shape of the face, the form, the angle of shoulder--did the body look like Harry Potter. The Devourers Curse had stolen every feature that might have identified him. No vestige of unruly black hair remained, not one single strand. Once healthy, pink skin sprouted horrible sores and jagged fissures. Nude patches on his forearms were rubbed down to the innermost dermal layer. The minority of skin not yet ruptured was an unnatural gray shade, like wet ash. On Harry's right cheek, a patch of bare muscle the size of a galleon lay exposed. Every trace of body tone built over years as Seeker on the Gryffindor quiddich team had vanished.

      Bandages wrapped his forehead and right ear--Madame Pomfrey's work, no doubt. Others covered various portions of Harry's upper body. Every once-white surface was now tinged red, and new lesions had spread to cover most of the emaciated frame. The blanket, covering him from waist down, hid the horrors below.

      Ron stumbled to the nearest corner and lost what little he had in his stomach. He heaved and chucked until nothing but gags remained. He trembled from head to foot. His body quaked so hard, he would have been hard pressed to hold onto a wand.

      The smell of Dobby's banquet threatened to overturn his stomach.

      _Get hold of yourself, Ron Weasley. You can't stand here tossin' your guts up all day. Harry needs you._

      Turning back to the shell that was his friend required every iota of Gryffindor courage. Every breath caught in his throat, and the bitter taste of bile threatened to restart the cycle of gag and heave.

      _It's Harry. Remember that. It's Harry. Iz'arry, iz'arry, iz'arry._

      Ron swallowed, steeled himself, recovered his wand, and stepped to the side of the bed.

      _First things first,_ he thought. _Clean him up, treat the wounds, and rebandage. If we were aurors in the field, injured while fighting Death Eaters, it wouldn't be any different. Think about it that way if it'll make it any easier. Bloody hell, don't think about it at all, just do it._

      Swish-and-flick. "_Wingardium leviosa_."

      Ron stopped the levitation when his friend hovered a foot above the bed. With access now possible to every area of Harry's body, Ron spent the next few minutes dabbing cream from Pomfrey's medicine jars onto every visible wound then wrapping fresh bandages around the worst of the lesions. He exchanged the soiled sheets for fresh ones found in the bottom drawer of the side cabinet then lowered Harry back down.

      He'd done what he could. Now he could only wait. And pray.

      After a time, the silence began to press in. Ron found himself cradling his friend's bandaged hand and talking about anything that came to mind.

      " . . . and then Ginny threw the pitcher of mud over Percy's head and-"

      Ron fell silent. Was that a change? A hitch in Harry's breathing?

      The minutes dragged on. Ron noticed an increasing change in his friend's pattern of respiration. Each breath grew shallower, more labored. The gap between breaths lengthened. Ron shifted to the head of the bed and lifted Harry into a seated position. The change seemed to help.

      "Easy, mate. I've got you. I won't let you go."

      He made himself as comfortable as possible. With Harry tucked against his chest, he found himself slowly rocking them both side to side. He recalled with a fond smile the times when, as a child, his mother had cuddled him close and swayed. The gentle rocking motion soothed even as it comforted.

      "I wish I could sing to you the way Mum did to me," Ron said. "Problem is, I can't carry a tune in one of Hagrid's buckets. Might wake you up, though. Dunno if that would be a good thing or bad."

      Ron studied his unconscious friend's condition. Even with the recent care, Harry remained a skeletal, declining form barely clinging to the last threads of life.

      "Bad, I think. Sleep, Harry. Hermione and Neville will be back soon with the flowers we need to heal you. You'll be back on your feet in no time." Even Ron heard his own lack of conviction. His voice a fell whisper, little more than a breath with sounds, he rocked his friend and said, "Sleep on, mate. I'm here for you, long as-" _you live,_ "-long as it takes."

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22  
  
_Author's Notes: Ducks flying fruits and vegetables...oh, look, dinner--thanks, guys! :)  
  
I had a little trouble with this chapter. Don't know why, just did. And I definitely made up the spell that Neville uses, because the only spell like it that I can recall from the HP books is the one Lockhart used, and considering how well that one worked, I don't think I'll try it here._

  
  
Neville Longbottom learned something new about his Potions professor--with proper motivation, Severus Snape could run, fast as wind. 

As the sky hunter soared upwards with Hermione, Snape paused only one moment, wand in hand. Unwilling to trust his impaired magic, the Potions Master sprinted forward. Neville raced to follow. They ran across the plaza, slipping and sliding on the loose gravel. Snape led them down the most promising walkway, a straight path between progressively taller growing beds, their attention locked on Hermione's dangling form. 

Both of them stumbled as the hunter veered in the sky, his prey dangling from one backpack strap. When Hermione fell, Neville screamed, "'Mione!" even as Snape roared, "No!" 

Within minutes, they reached the area where the young witch had disappeared. The two wizards paused to look around, gasping in one lungful of air after another. Neville Longbottom leaned forward and clutched a stitch in his side, while Severus Snape fought to stop his body from swaying with fatigue. 

They found themselves in a narrow canyon of sorts, a thin, Y-shaped intersection that wound between three tall beds. Weighty shadows at ground level created a premature twilight, stealing away all visibility. The longer they stared upward toward the narrow bands of sky and light, the closer in the towers leaned, leaving them with the dreaded sensation of being buried alive. 

"From down here, all of the taller planting beds look the same," Snape complained. "I can't tell which one she fell to." 

"Hermione!" Neville cried out, hoping his yearmate could give them some clue to her location. His voice rebounded off the close-standing, gray stone towers until a dozen calls of varying strength echoed around them. "'Mione, where are you?" 

They waited the span of three heartbeats but heard no answer. 

"We can't afford to dither about it. We'll just have to pick one and hope we get it right." 

Neville stared up, unable to decide. "But which one?" 

They had three choices--three towers nearly identical in height and size--and only one chance. Severus Snape climbed the ladder of the nearest planting bed as fast as his robes would allow. Neville followed hard on his heels, desperate to stay with another living soul, even if it was his most dreaded professor. 

A single glance around the floral garden, with its daffodils, hollihocks, foxgloves, blue forget-me-nots, and rose-draped trellises, all reminiscent of an English country garden, revealed no young witch. 

"There she is!" 

Snape followed Longbottom's gesture and snarled a curse. He'd miscalculated. Hermione was one bed over. 

The young witch lay partially buried on a carpet of flowers and was only now struggling to sit up. From that distance, she appeared shaken and dazed but otherwise unharmed. The students exchanged relieved smiles even as Snape shaded his eyes against the westering sun and searched for the nearest ladder on the side of their particular planting tower. 

"The beds!" Neville cried. "They're going to shift any second. There won't be enough time to climb down then up again!" 

"Jump." The Potions Master pointed to a column of metal rungs imbedded in the stone blocks of Hermione's tower. "You aim for the left side of the ladder. I'll aim for the right." 

Neville stared, eyes large as saucers, as Snape threw his pack up and across the distance that separated them from Hermione. He stared over the edge--the crushed shell and stone walkway lay some eight or more stories straight down, lost in shadow. Neither of them would survive a fall from that height. 

"_Jump?_ Across _that_? You're barmy!" 

"We dare not become separated. Merlin alone knows how far apart we'd be, and Potter has no time. Now gather that renowned Gryffindor courage and _JUMP!_" 

Gathering the hems of his robes behind him, Snape moved five paces back, took a deep breath, and raced for the edge. He kicked off the low wall and stretched across. The Potions Master caught a ladder rung with his right hand. Momentum swung him around until his back slammed against the outside of the planting tower. Rough stone dug into his skin and snatched at his hair. He dangled wildly for a moment, left arm and both legs pinwheeling madly in an effort to help his balance. The strength of one strained hand saved him from a deadly fall. Snape contorted until his left foot found a lower rung and stopped his wild swinging. 

The Potions Master's near-fall did nothing to bolster Neville's confidence. The view down left him dizzy and nauseous. The last time he'd been this high was during his first flying lesson, one of the most traumatic events of his life and one he most definitely did not want to repeat. If he fell here, he'd break much more than his wrist. 

"Jump, boy! _Now!_ Or by Merlin, I will make your Potions classes a living hell!" 

"Like you don't do that already," Neville muttered even as he started running. 

Longbottom made the distance, but only just. With a single, barked scream, he slid down five rungs, banging his chin on the rough iron, before at last catching one. 

No sooner had he stopped his fall than Snape yelled, "Climb!" 

Snape, straddling the top, reached down and snatched the shoulder of Neville's robes. He yanked with all his strength, pulling Longbottom over the edge and onto a cushion of grass an instant ahead of the shimmer and shift. The trailing end of Neville's robes, draped over the side, vanished as though sliced off by a hot, sharp knife. 

The two wizards sprawled on their backs across the spongy ground, fighting to pull in air to fill burning lungs. 

"You realize--of course--" Longbottom panted, "--that had we taken a moment--to think it through--we could have--lightened ourselves and--floated across." 

"Hindsight," Snape wheezed, "has ever-perfect vision." 

Severus Snape recovered first, or rather chose to move before Longbottom. With a smothered groan, he rolled onto his side, from there rising to one knee. He looked around through sweat-stung eyes until he spotted the third member of their party. 

"Granger?" 

The young witch sat amidst the flowers and cradled her right arm close to her body. She offered her companions a rueful grin. 

"I'm fairly certain that it's broken." 

"Well, Mr. Longbottom," Snape sighed as he settled back onto one heel, his trademark sneer firmly in place. "It's time to see what you're really made of." 

Neville blinked in his professor's general direction. "Sir?" 

"Due to the Vulcan's vine, I have uncertain control over my magic. Enough to do what must be done to create Potter's remedy but little else. Nor can I imagine Ms. Granger casting it upon herself. By a simple process of elimination, that leaves you." 

"_ME!_" 

"You can do it, Neville," Hermione said. 

"The spell you will need is-" 

"I know the spell, Professor," Neville cut in even as he crawled over to his friend and drew his wand with a shaking hand. "Madame Pomfrey used it to fix my wrist back in first year." 

"Get on with it then, boy." 

Neville drew in a deep breath and let it out again. At Hermione's encouraging nod, he braced himself, swished his wand over her injured arm, and intoned, "_Brachium . . . percuro._" 

A soft hum touched the air. A brief flicker of bronze light flitted across Hermione's forearm. The three waited a moment. The young witch twitched her fingers. A great smile lit her face as she wiggled her fingers, flexed her wrist, and bent her elbow without pain. 

"Excellent, Neville!" She hugged her yearmate in gratitude. "I knew you could do it." 

"One would hope so," Snape drawled, "all things considered." 

"Blessed Merlin," Neville whispered as he gazed, dumbfounded, over Hermione's shoulder. He pointed with a trembling hand. "Look." 

Hermione sighed, a heavy sound that carried away every stress and strain, every worry. 

"There it is. Dawn's Glory." 

Nestled inside the ring of green, spongy moss grew hundreds of the plant. Uncounted blossoms filled a space some thirty feet across, their sword-shaped central pedal peeking through the pale blue cup. A scent like baked cinnamon filled the air. 

Snape snatched his pack and rummaged through its contents. He passed two containers to each of the students and pointed them toward their own gathering spot. 

"Harvest as many of the flowers as you can. Leave the pedals and stems, they're not necessary." 

Hermione picked her first blossom only to pause, its pedals balanced over the lip of her flask. "How careful should we be with them?" 

"It's the pollen we need. Stuff as many into every container as you can." 

Within minutes, their fingers were coated with thick golden pollen that they carefully scraped into their current containers. The trio said nothing more until every last one of the dozen jars and flasks were crammed solid with blooms from Dawn's Glory. Neville even pressed handfuls of the blossoms into the pockets of both his pants and his robes. 

"We have what we came for," Snape said as he tapped down the final stopper and placed it in the pack on top the others. "Now, all we can do is wait and hope the next shift takes us closer to the wall. And to the way out." 

Three faces tipped up. The sky overhead dressed itself in the first muted colors of sunset. 

_Author's addendum:_  
  
brachium--the forearm, arm from elbow to wrist; any limb of a living creature; any other thing like an arm, e.g. branch, spur, yard, outwork of a fortification, mole

percuro--to cure, heal thoroughly 


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23****

Rubeus Hagrid sniffed back tears even as he filled a second expanding sack with feverdew. He didn't take time to clean his face properly, just wiped the tears on the sleeve of his furry winter coat and kept snipping and bagging leaves. One full bag already stood beside the door, awaiting transport back to Madame Pomfrey's office. Another, two-thirds filled, rested at his feet.

He tried very hard not to note the position of the sun. The lower edge of the pale, gold disk, muted by winter's distance and chill, had already vanished behind the trees, headed for the horizon--and sunset.

"Surely it won't all end like this," he said aloud to himself. "Not after all the boy's been through. They'll get back in time. Professor Snape'll save him just soes he can rub Harry's nose in it every chance he gets. An' Hermione an' Neville. They're Harry's friends. They'll get it done in time."

Turning toward the school, eyes unfocused, he faced the hospital wing and said, "You hang in there, Harry, my lad. You just hang in there. They'll get back in time. You'll see. You just have to do your part and stay with us."

The groundskeeper and Professor of the Care of Magical Creatures class shook himself like a big wet bear.

"Listen at you, Rubeus, mumblin' to yourself. That won't help Harry or get the feverdew to Madame Pomfrey in time to do any good. Back to work with you."

Thus admonished by himself, Rubeus Hagrid cut off more leaves and dropped them into the sack at his feet.

Far away, stone scraped against stone.

Hagrid paused in his task, snips poised to cut. The noise grew, a combination of strained metal, grating stone, and ghostly wails, like souls writhing in torment.

Such sounds were not uncommon around Hogwarts. It was, after all, a haunted castle, every stone saturated with over a thousand years of magic and history. Even so, the world being as it was, better safe than surprised. Only a few years back, the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets reminded everyone that danger could come from within as easily as from without.

Safety could not be assumed or assured, even inside the bounds of Hogwarts.

Hagrid dropped the snips into one of the planting pots and reached for the pink umbrella hooked on the right side of his wide leather belt. He turned in a full circle, searching for the source of the rapidly increasing noise. He saw nothing through the frost-glazed glass and snow-blanketed grounds beyond. The sounds came from behind him.

The back wall, covered in climbing vines, trembled. Plants bulged forward and down. The unearthly sounds burst into three distinct voices.

The half-giant hopped back and stared slack-jawed as three shapeless forms fell out of the wall and sprawled across the floor, bound up in thick, concealing vines. Hagrid sagged with relief when he heard a gutter curse in a very familiar voice.

"Professor Snape?"

The largest of the three lumps strained against the confining foliage. A dirty, scratched, fire-reddened hand burst through to wave in the free air of the greenhouse.

A voice, muffled and barely discernable, demanded, "Get me out of this confounded greenery!"

His umbrella once more on his belt, Hagrid reached down and pulled away the leafy vines in great clumps. His giant hands soon uncovered all three new arrivals.

"Professor. Hermione. Neville. You're back!"

Rising off the floor with a weary groan, Neville Longbottom rubbed his rear end and muttered to himself, "I should've worn padded trousers. It hurt just as much this time as last!"

Hermione removed a tangle of vines from her shoulder and stepped clear of the remaining plants. "At least this time, you didn't land at Professor Snape's feet."

"No, he didn't," Snape cut in from his place on the floor. His hands rubbed an ache in his right thigh. "He landed on _top_ of me instead."

"Sorry, sir."

"Praise be," Hagrid gasped as he spied the spillage of Dawn's Glory petals from Longbottom's pockets and the bulging sacks beside Professor Snape. "Is tha-it is! Ye found it!"

Snape rose to his feet. He tossed his head to free his vision of greasy hair then popped his robes to clear them of clinging dust, dirt, and greenery.

"How is Potter?" he asked.

Hagrid's joy evaporated in an instant.

"Slippin' fast, I'm afraid. Them Muggle relatives of his certainly aren't helpin' his situation any. You cut it mighty fine."

Hermione grimaced at the protest of sore muscles over her entire body and said, "We have to let the others know we've made it."

"Never you mind abou' tha'!" Hagrid waved them toward the castle. "Just get to brewin' that antidote and leave me to tell the others you're back. It's at most ten minutes to sunset, soes you best move yourselves. Go on then!"

Hagrid watched the tired, aching trio stumble their way out of Greenhouse Three and across the yard to vanish through a shadowed, arched doorway. With a last anxious look at the setting sun, the half-giant closed up the second sack of feverdew, gathered up its mate, and hurried toward the hospital wing as fast as his long stride would carry him.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: My monitor died—had to wait until payday to replace it (when the paycheck only comes once a month, that's sometimes a long time in coming). One week later, a thunderstorm blew out my power supply. Again, had to wait until payday. Due to mounting health problems, having to put my dog to sleep, and a changerover in personnel at work that had me working 60 hour weeks, I have had neither the time nor the access to my computer to do any writing. My direct supervisor quit, leaving just me to run the clerical/administrative/personnel sides of a 35-person division in a medical teaching and research university. Anyway, I hope this chapter is worth the wait. _

_A/N #2: Here is my response to those readers who have bombarded me with thrice-weekly private emails DEMANDING an update because "my obligation is to my readers." Ummm….no. It isn't. My obligation is to myself first, the craft of writing second. It's nice to have fans who enjoy my work, but I could continue writing only for myself the rest of my life and be just as pleased with the result. "If you don't post another chapter within one week, I'm going to stop reading" has gone out of style right along with "I'm taking my ball and going home."_

_I will say this…a printout of the bash-mail made a really good fire in my fireplace. Took care of the night chill quite nicely._

Chapter 24

The cloying scent of baked cinnamon swirled around Draco Malfoy the instant he opened the door to the potions classroom. A golden, powdered haze hung in the air, thicker in some places than in others, like a Midas fog. Every piece of equipment and furniture in the room already sported a light dusting of amber pollen.

Draco sneezed hard enough to call up his toes. His eyes watered, his sinuses clogged, his throat burned, and his head felt light enough to float.

"Close the door, Mr. Malfoy," Snape commanded. "The last thing we need at this juncture is a stray draft affecting the flame."

The Slytherin boy did as instructed even as he said, "Hagrid said you were back."

Draco descended the stairs and wiped his tearing eyes with a green and silver monogrammed handkerchief. He studied the brewing area with a perfectly raised eyebrow. Professor Snape stood next to a size eighteen gold cauldron, carefully placing drops from a yellow-glass bottle the size of a wine decanter into a small earthenware cup. A distant, tart, unfamiliar scent tickled Malfoy's senses.

Neville Longbottom never looked up from his place at a sideboard overflowing with blossoms from Dawn's Glory. His job, apparently, was to separate the pollen from the blossoms and place it in a bell-shaped, white glass jar, a task to which he devoted his complete attention to the exclusion of all else. Draco saw no sign of Hermione Granger, though the open storeroom door and the clink of muffled bottles gave him some clue where she might be.

"I see that you found what you were looking for," Draco said. He eyed their appearances, taking in the cuts, burns, scrapes, tears, and overall state of near-exhaustion. A discrete sniff of the air next to Professor Snape caught the faintest smell of smoke, crushed greenery, and ... roses? "I see that you had a fun time getting it, as well."

Professor Snape transferred the contents of the cup to the cauldron under which a controlled fire burned atop a silver plate seemingly without fuel. As he sealed the mouth of the yellow-glass bottle with a clear glass dewdrop stopper, Snape asked, "How are things in the hospital wing?"

Draco shrugged. "You wouldn't believe all that's gone on since you left. It would take the rest of the night to tell it all."

"Give us a condensed version then."

Malfoy leaned against the least cluttered corner of the table, crossed his ankles, and ticked off each relevant point on his fingers.

"Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, is here at Hogwarts. Those Muggle relatives of Potter's proved themselves to be perfect examples of why the Wizarding world and the Muggle world should never, ever, mix. Dursley did his best to intimidate me, but the sight of my wand pointed at his pork belly popped his bubble fast enough."

Hermione's disembodied voice echoed from the storeroom, "Wish I'd been there to see _that_. What happened then?"

"Madam Pomfrey threatened to hex both adult Dursleys if they carried through with their threat to remove Harry to St. Mungo's, and the junior Dursley is off eating next year's entire stock of food. Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the Weasleys took Pomfrey's side, and Minister Fudge showed himself once again to be a blithering idiot who can't make up his own mind. It was almost funny, watching him yanked back and forth between siding with Dumbledore and caving in to the Muggles."

"And Harry?" Hermione asked as she stepped out of the storeroom, her arms overloaded with metal racks filled with bottles and vials. Bags hung from a rope tied around her waist like bizarre war trophies. A garland of dried elephant garlic encircled her neck, while strings of petrified peppers and salted salamander tails trailed down her back. "What about Harry?"

"The Muggles were demanding we take Potter to St. Mungo's. Fudge threatened to bring in the Aurors. Ron Weasley came up with the idea of calling Dobby. The house elf hid Potter and Weasley somewhere in the castle. They'll stay hidden until we call Dobby to bring them back."

Neville repeated Hermione's question. "But how _was_ he!"

Draco shrugged again, as much to hide any personal feelings he might have as to answer Longbottom's question. "He was still alive the last I saw of him. That was a little over an hour ago."

Hermione called out, "Dobby! Dobby, come here!"

The house elf, clad in a dozen knitted caps, one scarf, two sweaters, and mismatched socks (one argyle, the other orange with black cats), appeared in with a crack of sound and a puff of silver mist.

"Dobby is here, miss."

Hermione knelt down and said, "Dobby, I need you to go to Ron and Harry, let them know we've returned and have the Dawn's Glory. We're working on the antidote now. We'll call them back to the hospital wing as soon as it's ready."

Dobby's ears peaked with joy. "Ohhh, brave miss, gladly will Dobby deliver that message."

The house elf vanished in a puff of silver smoke.

Draco leaned back to look at Longbottom's heaping mounds of pedals, most of them now cleaned of the vital pollen. "How much of it did you bring back?"

"Enough, hopefully," Snape answered, "to do the task."

A snakelike hiss rose from the cauldron. Severus Snape whipped around to face the work area. His already pale skin lightened two more shades.

"No ... it's too soon for--get down!"

Severus threw himself away from the worktable, raised his wand, and shouted a hasty spell. A weak oval of orange light sprang up between the table and the two students closest to him, Hermione and Draco, who instantly dropped to the floor.

The cauldron erupted in an explosion of green sparks and blue-white flame. Dense smoke filled with moist grit, like a dirty fog, swirled around the edges of the fast-fading magical shield. A rank odor of rotten eggs flooded the chamber.

The shield wavered and weakened. Snape held his vibrating wand with both hands, desperate to hold back the destructive flames. His magic, weakened by events in the secret arboretum, could not withstand the onslaught.

The shield failed.

A fraction of a second before the magical protection shattered, a second shield molded itself to the inside of Professor Snape's. A third layered itself to the second shield moments later, forming a reinforcing lattice-work of support. The Potions Master stared at the two students kneeling on either side of his leg. Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, wands drawn, bolstered his weakening shield long enough for the pyrotechnics to subside.

Their shield, however, did not extend to cover Longbottom's work area. Sparks from the eruption caught the heaps of pedals that promptly burst into gold-haloed flames.

The laboratory's fire-suppression spells kicked in, spraying foam onto the sideboard, but not in time to save the Dawn's Glory.

The shield, no longer needed, disappeared at a whispered command from Draco Malfoy.

Snape helped Hermione to her feet even as Draco coughed against the rain of dust from the rafters overhead and waved himself a small, clear bit of air in front of his face. Neville Longbottom peered from beneath the table, his entire upper body wrapped protectively around the precious, hastily lidded jar of pollen.

"Was it ... supposed to do that?" Longbottom whispered.

Snape's answer was not verbal but quite comprehensible nonetheless.

"Oh, no!" Hermione studied the foam—soaked, gooey mess that had once been flower pedals. "The Dawn's Glory is destroyed!"

Longbottom lifted the lid of the jaw and angled it toward Professor Snape. "Will this be enough?"

Snape studied the nearly two cups of pollen accumulated in the jar and answered to everyone's relief, "Yes, it will, but only just. If you value Potter's life, you won't lose even one grain of that pollen, Mr. Longbottom."

With great caution, Hermione approached the table and examined what remained within the bowl of the golden cauldron. She wrinkled her nose against the lingering stench.

"What happened?" she asked.

Everyone in the room heard the distinct sound of grinding teeth.

"The flame was too hot," Snape reported. "The mixture boiled before it was supposed to. Damnit, that should not have happened!"

"That fire plate was spell-controlled, wasn't it?" Draco asked.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," Snape growled, "it was."

Before Draco could ask how so experienced a Potions Master could make such a beginner's error as to the exact temperature of a fire plate spell, Hermione whispered in his direction, "The Professor had a bit of a run-in with Vulcan's vine. His magic is a tad wonky at the moment."

Understanding dawned. "Oh."

Hermione and Neville studied the still-smoldering cauldron, glanced toward each other then, as one, turned back to their Potions Professor.

"Sir, does that mean we won't be able to finish the antidote in time?"

"No, Miss Granger," Snape answered as he cleared away the debris and regathered his ingredients. "It simply means we have used up what little _extra_ time we might have had. From this point forward, we dare make no mistakes."

"Miss, sirs."

Dobby had returned. The joy they'd last seen on his face had vanished.

Hermione knelt down before the little elf and said, "What is it, Dobby?"

"I have a message from the Wheezy. He says ... he says to tell you that Mr. Harry Potter is ... is not well at all. He says that ... Mr. Harry Potter is ... is fading fast. He asks that you hurry quick as you can." Dobby dabbed at his liquid eyes with the end of his muffler. The house elf moaned and rocked on his feet. "I saw him. Poor Mr. Harry Potter. Oooooooh, he looks _terrible_!"

Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom exchanged a single, long look between them. Draco sensed a new undercurrent between the three, a new understanding, perhaps even a fragile alliance.

Draco Malfoy stepped up to the table and asked, "What can I do to help?"


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

_A/N: Bit of a new POV shift here, fresh characters and all. In the immortal words of Quirrel the Squirrel: I thought you ought to know. Also, remember that I started this fic BEFORE the release of Book 5, so it should be considered fourth-year AU._

Remus Lupin ached in every bone, fiber, and joint. He leaned heavily on the oak cane in his left hand, moving like an arthritic old man despite the fact that he had yet to reach his 40th birthday. With his right hand, he held tight to the scruff of a big black dog. The effort of holding back the straining animal was tremendous, especially for a werewolf only two nights past the full moon.

The odd pair hurried down a corridor in Hogwarts Castle, having apparated to Hogsmede village and taken the underground passage from Honeyduke's cellar to the one-eyed witch statue. Considering the intensive search still going on for Sirius Black and the wizarding world's generally negative response to werewolves, the fewer who noticed their comings and goings, the better and safer for all concerned.

"Sirius, if you don't slow down and stay with me, I will be forced to hex you. You know I can't keep up with you, even when I'm at my best. Which I currently am _not_."

The dog growled and bared the ends of his teeth. The muscles beneath Lupin's hand rippled.

"Don't you snarl at me, Sirius Black. You know I'm right." Remus paused in his dressing down until one of the castle's many ghosts floated beyond hearing range and their section of corridor was free of magical paintings who liked nothing better than to gossip amongst themselves. "We don't know who all is in the hospital wing with Harry. He would never forgive either himself or us if we barged in there and got you caught."

The dog whined and, for a few moments at least, stopped pulling against Lupin's hold. Remus tried to smile.

"I know, Padfoot, my old friend," Remus said. "I'm worried about Harry, too, and I want to get to him before-" the dog moaned pitifully as though begging him not to say it aloud, "-well, I mean--as fast as possible. We'll see him soon."

The infirmary doors came into sight. Startled, Lupin pulled back so hard and fast that Padfoot's front paws came a full six inches off the floor. The dog gave a choked yelp at the sudden, unexpected jerk.

"The doors-"

Both hospital wing doors sat at unnatural angles, each attached to the wall by a single low, warped hinge, as though blown inwards by some powerful force. In the room beyond, a dozen voice both male and female rose in furious argument. So violent was the yelling, it seemed unnatural not to see bright flashes of hex light being fired around the room.

"We seem to have still more visitors," Albus Dumbledore's voice carried through the damaged portal even as Remus dropped his cane and reached for his wand. "Remus, do come in. The corridor is a rather drafty place to wait for news."

Albus Dumbledore stepped over a section of wood that had once filled a panel in the hospital wing's door. Dragons danced over his ash gray robes, lit by the glow from magically fueled firepots and torches. The dissension, if anything, grew louder with the Headmaster's withdrawal.

"Hello there, Remus." Dumbledore raised his voice to be heard over the din. "You received my message, good, good. Ahhh, I see that you brought Padfoot with you. Despite all the noise and bother, it's quite safe at the moment," Albus Dumbledore leaned in close to whisper, "though it would be best if your friend remained in his current form for the time being."

A nod from Lupin and a soft "_wrmfff_" from Padfoot marked receipt of the warning.

"I see you've noticed the doors?" Dumbledore said. At the questioning looks, one from a man and one from a dog, he explained, "Hagrid was in a bit of a hurry to get back to us with the news that Professor Snape-" the dog growled, hackles raised, only to be shushed by the werewolf, "-Miss Granger, and Mr. Longbottom had returned with the ingredient necessary for brewing the antidote."

"Antidote?" Lupin repeated, a reluctant expression of hope on his tired, worn face. "But your message said--the Devourer's Curse. There is no cure for that."

"Yes, there is. The activating ingredient, however, was thought to be extinct until quite recently. They are down in the potions lab brewing the counteracting potion even as we speak."

"And Harry--how is he?"

Some of Dumbledore's spark dimmed. "Well ... that does seem to be the question everyone-" the Headmaster glanced over his shoulder at the Dursley family, "-at least everyone who truly cares about him--is asking. Unfortunately, no one seems to know the answer."

Lupin sighed and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. The werewolf had come out of his latest monthly transformation with a raging headache that never went away. Dumbledore's convoluted answers were no help whatsoever.

"Albus, would you please stop talking like an addled oracle of old and just tell me--_how-is-Harry_?"

"We don't know. He's not here."

"Not here!"

In his surprise, Lupin released his hold on the dog. Padfoot immediately leaped over the remains of the doors and into the hospital wing. The big black dog trotted past everyone in the room, giving a deliberate growl as he passed Fudge and the Dursleys, and over to the area where Harry's bed once stood. He sniffed the air and the floor all around the area, trying to track the scent only to come up empty. He sat down, stared at Remus, and whined.

"Mum! Dad!"

"In here, Duddy-kins!"

Dudley Dursley waddled into the already overcrowded room, his arms overloaded with pastries and sweets. Behind him, two house elves tried to remain unobtrusive as they swept up the unending trail of crumbs and paper left in the Muggle boy's wake.

Remus, who stood closest to the doorway, hastily stepped back to keep from being knocked over by the whale of a boy. Lupin blinked and stared, hardly able to believe this misshapen blob could be Harry's cousin. They truly looked to be of entirely different species.

"It's after dark! You promised I'd be home in time for my party!"

"Son, we have some rather important business to attend to here." Vernon tried to pacify his brat of a son. "Financially speaking, it is _very_ important. We'll head for home soon enough-"

"I'm missing my party _now_! There's supposed to be presents, and food!"

A joyous cry from Professor McGonagall caught everyone's attention. "Severus!"

Sudden silence fell on the room. Every voice ceased in mid-argument. Even the clock on the wall muted its ticking. Everyone turned toward the doorway.

The Potions Master, still clad in slashed, filthy, foam-covered robes, stood in the archway. Exhaustion reeked from his every movement, most especially in the way that he could not stand still without weaving in place. His eyes blinked rapidly, as though unable to focus through his fatigue.

Remus looked beyond the Potions Master. Vague shadows in the hallway behind Snape marked the probable position of his student helpers.

Dumbledore stepped around Lupin, his eyes on the blue-glass bottle in the Potions Master's hand. His eyes lit with desperate hope.

"Is that it? Is that the antidote?"

"It is."

Madam Pomfrey rushed forward to accept the container from Snape, clutching it tight against her chest even as she asked, "But how do we find the boy to give it to him?"

Severus Snape looked back over his shoulder and said, "Mr. Malfoy, would you be so kind?"

"Certainly, Professor." The boy from Slytherin stepped out of his mentor's shadow and over to the small, clear area of floor where Harry's hospital bed and tables once stood. He glanced toward Lupin and said, "You might want to move your dog, else he'll get squashed."

Remus stared hard at the pale boy whom he remembered as being well on the road to following in his Death Eater father's footsteps. A glance in Dumbledore's direction caught the faintest of nods.

"Padfoot, come here please."

Draco Malfoy the pale boy as though sizing him up as his next meal. Before Lupin could give a second, harsher command, the dog stepped over to the werewolf's side. He never once took his eyes off of Draco.

With the area clear once more, Draco glanced toward thin air and called out, "Dobby. Dobby, come here."

With a loud crack and a puff of silver smoke, Dobby the house elf appeared once more in the Hogwarts infirmary.

"You called, Master Draco, sir? Is it time?"

"Yes, Dobby. We have the antidote. Bring them back."

"Oh, yes sir. Right away, sir!"

The house elf vanished as quickly as he appeared.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

For the first time since the entire nightmare began, Ron Weasley felt hope.

Silver smoke swirled in the middle of the room--Dobby had just disappeared after giving him Hermione's message.

"Did you hear that, mate? 'mione's back. They did it. They found the Dawn's Glory! They're makin' the antidote right now. You'll be right as rain by morning. It won't be long, Harry. Not long at all."

With no idea how long it would take Snape and his student helpers to brew the antidote, they had to be ready to move back to the infirmary at an instant's notice. He performed _wingardium leviosa_ on Harry and changed the bed one final time. After lowering Harry back down, Ron performed _scourgify_ on all of the dirty sheets, folded them, and returned them to the side table--the cleansing wasn't as good as Madam Pomfrey's more advanced sterilizing spells, but it beat leaving them laying about, covered in blood. He tightened the caps or stoppers of every container and put them back in the other table. Finally, he vanished the untouched food.

With the room set to rights, he climbed back onto the bed and propped Harry against him. That position still seemed to best help Harry's breathing. Then he waited.

And waited.

How long did it take to brew the potion? Had they run into any problems? He felt so bloody helpless. He wanted to scream in panic. He wanted to send Dobby to the potions laboratory every few minutes for any news. Only by telling himself over and over that interruptions would delay production of the antidote kept him silent.

Emotional strain and lack of sleep dragged on him. Rational thought took more of his conscious concentration with every passing hour. More than once, he drifted to sleep only to roused again by a jerk in Harry's already ragged breathing.

After one such awakening, Ron rubbed at the tiredness in his eyes, swirled his wand in the air, and cast, "_Tempus_."

A ghostly clock face appeared before him for the space of 30 seconds before it wafted away on an imaginary breeze: 3:22 in the morning. The dead of night. Ron shivered, regretting any thought-reference to "death."

"Dobby came with 'mione's message just after 8:00. That was over seven hours ago. Where are they?" he muttered into the air. "Come on, Hermione, Neville. Send me some news, will you? What's taking so long? If Snape does anything to louse this up, he'll answer for it, my oath on that."

He stared down at the unconscious burden in his arms. The plentiful bandages around Harry's face, upper body, and left forearm had bled through to the topmost layer of gauze.

"Should I replace your bandages one more time?" Ron sighed and shook his head. "Better not. I don't know if the salves and potions will react with the antidote."

Rather than replace the bandages, he instead levitated his friend once more. As gently as possible, he added several hundred feet more of gauze to Harry's already mummified body. By the time he finished, only enough unwrapped area remained to let Harry Potter breathe.

No sooner had Ron resettled both of them on the bed than Dobby was back with a crack of sound and a swirl of smoke.

The elf appeared, already calling his joyous message. "-time, Wheezy! Master Draco calls us back to the hospital wing!"

"We're ready! Go-go-go!"

The stomach-twisting transfer took only an instant. He blinked at the sudden shift in light level and cringed at the wicked upsurge in noise. After a long night spent with only the crackling of the fire, Harry's rough breathing, and his own voice for company, the raucous din of nearly a dozen adult voices raised in shouts of surprise or dismay beat painfully at his ears.

Barely had the bed settled back in its old grooves in the stone floor than Madam Pomfrey and Molly Weasley pounced on Harry and Ron. Even as the mediwitch ran her wand back and forth over her patient, frowning at the readings that floated in the air over him, Molly smothered her youngest son with a blend of affection and scold.

"Mr. Weasley," Poppy broke through Molly's motherly tirade, "what did you do here?"

Ron cringed at the impatient tone of Pomfreys' voice. Unable to tell if he'd done good or bad, Ron swallowed a lump of anxiety and answered, "Applied the potions from the side table, replaced his bandages four times, changed the sheets three times, and propped him up like I'm doing right now. It seemed to help his breathing."

Pomfrey muttered under her breath and levitated Harry into the air, careful to keep his upper body upright to help his air intake. Though reluctant to lose the contact, Ron rolled off the bed to make room for the mediwitch to work. While Pomfrey examined her patient, Ron looked around the room.

Molly Weasley stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. A telling tremble passed through her hands into his body. His Mum had been worried. When the time was right, he'd be catching an earful from her about his actions and no mistake.

Draco Malfoy stood at the foot of the bed, a familiar sneer on his face. His attention, however, was not on the bed area but rather on the other adults in the room. Dobby stood at Malfoy's side, anxiously unraveling his super-long muffler in nervous fidgets.

Every face had some form of shock or surprise. Beneath all three Dursleys' expressions was a definite glower of disappointment. The Muggles' eyes locked on Dobby, filled with fear at the sight of such an unhuman creature of magic. Minerva McGonagall stood with her hand at her throat as she sobbed with relief. His Dad moved up to hold his Mum's shoulders, smiling, while Remus Lupin held tight to a whining, very familiar black dog. A teary-eyed Rubeus Hagrid watched the goings-on, puzzled but hopeful, even as Cornelius Fudge looked hopelessly confused. And from Albus Dumbledore, whom many believed to be the most powerful wizard since Merlin himself, came an unmistakable glow of pride and respect.

In the shadows near the door, separated by distance and exhaustion, Severus Snape lay sprawled on the first empty bed, already deeply asleep. He lay as he fell and would surely have a painful crick in his back and cramps in both legs when he woke.

Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger sat back-to-back on the next-closer bed, as though propping each other up. Hermione fought the urge to sleep even as her eyelids drooped, darkened with strain and dragged down by extreme fatigue. Neville, his chin on his chest, had already succumbed. An occasional snore from both Snape and Longbottom fluttered beneath the overall noise of the room.

Madam Pomfrey's no-nonsense voice returned Ron's attention to matters closer at hand.

"We'll have to take the bandages off and coat every inch of his skin with the antidote like we might with a lotion," Poppy said. "Then we'll have to get as much of it into him as we can manage. The more, the better."

Ron grimaced. "Ummm, Madam Pomfrey. I'd better warn you. What's under the gauze ... well ... it's not a pretty sight. Truth told, there isn't any skin left to coat."

The mediwitch sighed and shook her head. "I don't expect there is, Mr. Weasley, but we've no other option. At least none of his internal organs are yet affected. Given another hour, that would not have been the case. Regrowing his skin and hair will be a long, painful process, but at least it's easily done once the curse spell is lifted."

"I'll help, then. I can keep him airborne while you do what you need to do."

Poppy stared at him long enough to make Ron want to squirm but he held her gaze, determined to win the staring match. Madam Pomfrey, apparently satisfied, looked away and nodded.

"As you've already seen what's under these bandages and have yet to run screaming into the Dark Forest, I suppose you'll do for an assistant. The rest of you, however, need to move back and let us work. Molly, would you put the screens back in place on your way? Thank you."

"You will not touch that boy without a say-so from me."

Every magical person in the room, the conscious ones at least, froze a moment then turned to stare, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as Vernon Dursley puffed himself to his full width and glared back at them. Molly Weasley stopped, wand raised. Two half-opened screens floated mid-air between the bed and room at large.

"I am that boy's guardian, and I'm not convinced this so-called 'antidote' is safe," Dursley said. "Has it been tested? How did its maker maintain purity during its creation? Certainly not the same man who was responsible for the boy's injuries in the first place! I would be most neglectful in my duties as Harry Potter's guardian to allow this to go forward."

Choked objections peppered the air. Over them all, a gentle voice carried, "Padfoot, I do believe my hand is cramping from holding you in place. Do be a good dog and stand here at my side, won't you? Thank you."

The instant the werewolf's hand left his ruff, the black dog latched devil's eyes on the three Muggles. With deliberate slowness, Padfoot bared each and every fang. He licked his jaws, first one side and around the other, as though anticipating a scrumptious meal. A low, almost subliminal growl rumbled from his throat. Every hair on his body rose until he looked of a size to rival a small pony. His body coiled, like a wolf ready to spring on its prey.

Every wizard in the room shivered, even those who knew Padfoot's true identity--for an instant, they did not see a simple black dog. They saw The Grim.

The predator's threat carried enough weight to terrify each and every one of the Dursleys into silence.

"Now see here, Albus," Minister Fudge found himself caught once more in the middle of the debate, "If you don't do something to regain order here, I will."

"Ohhhh, shut up, you smelly old skrewt." Every eye turned toward the red-haired youth at Harry Potter's bedside. "I am tired and hungry and worried and fed up to my back teeth with all the yelling. Every second you bicker is time taken away from Harry. You're all grown-ups for Merlin's sake. Act like it already!"

Cornelius Fudge took one officious step closer, finger raised to waggle a warning. "Now see here, boy-"

"If you take one more step toward this bed," Ron glared daggers at the stunned Minister and drew his wand, "I will hex you into next year. You've caused Harry enough grief for one lifetime. I will not let you endanger him just because you've let a couple of magicless Muggles scare your knickers into a twist."

"Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey called even as a sterile blue light formed a bubble around her patient and the bandages around his legs began to unravel. "I need you. Molly, the screens, please."

The pair of tri-fold screens, fully opened, landed on metal feet with a metal-on-stone scrape that echoed in a chamber void of any other sound except for the soft sleeping noises of Severus Snape, Neville Longbottom, and Hermione Granger.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

He was so cold. Where was the moist warmth of the sun in the Great Courtyard or the dry heat of a blazing fire in the Common Room hearth? Where were his clothes-his shirt and trousers, his red-and-gold muffler, his school robes with the Hogwarts Crest? Where was his wand? He was naked in a cold, dark place devoid of light. He strained his ears but heard not a single sound, stretched his sight but saw nothing, reached out in all directions to the limits of his hands and feet but felt nothing.

Dark, frozen, and endless, the void both evaded him and smothered him.

He was so cold. And he was alone.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" His own voice bounced back to him, muffled and distant, little more intelligent than the buzz of an annoying insect. Receiving no answer, he grumbled beneath his breath, "You could have at least left me with my underwear."

How long had he been here? Why was he there in the first place? Was it a punishment of some kind? A test? An attack? Better still, how had he come to be there? If he knew the way _in_, maybe he could find a way _out_.

"I'm a Gryffindor," he said to himself. As the only voice in the void, he had only himself for company. "I can do this. Even without my wand, I can make it back home if I just can find the way. Surely I'm not the only thing here."

There, ahead. Something. A weak, twinkling star point of light, alternately flaring bright then dimming almost from sight. He could observe it only from the corner of his eye. If he tried to look directly at the light, it vanished from sight.

It was so far away. Could he reach it? Should he even try?

He shrugged his mental shoulders. Try or not, stay or go. The void surrounded him either way. At least by seeking the light, he was _doing_ something.

The star point remained distant and elusive, never growing any nearer. Was he moving at all? A pressure against his skin hinted at movement. He felt he'd come a great distance in a very short time yet the light remained far out of reach.

"I want to reach the light!"

The light flared then weakened. Was it even further away than before?

Some being, somewhere in some universe, was watching him and laughing its arse off. He just knew it. There was a wicked intelligence behind this horrid place that no teenage boy's imagination could grasp.

"Please let me reach the light!"

Just like that, there it was, less than a dozen meters away and rotating in a clockwise direction. The pure silver orb of light was twice his height and almost double his width. Bolts of lightning skipped across its surface to form a compact lattice of energy. Dark green blotches dotted its surface beneath the streaks of light.

Apparently all he had to do was ask politely.

Did something lay inside the egg of light, or was it an opening of some kind-a portal or a window? Pressing the green spots in a certain order might work, but what order to use? He examined the lightning, searching for a pattern in the flashes. They came too quickly, arcing up like solar flares in random places. He dared not risk reaching through to the orb beneath, even if such a move would provide an escape from the void.

As he watched, the orb shrank some five or six centimeters. If it was a portal and it was closing, he might have little time to activate it and escape.

Was there a puzzle to be solved here or would the mystery be explained with a simple, politely worded question?

"Please," he spoke to the void above him even though the act made him blush a shade of bright crimson worthy of a Gryffindor banner, "is there something inside? May I see?"

The walls of the orb shifted. The lightning continued unchanged but all trace of color and opacity leeched from the material. A ghostly form came to view. The sphere was a container, then, with walls that now resembled thick, cloudy glass.

The thing inside had very little room to move. It resembled more than anything an infant curled up in a womb of lighted glass. Would the orb shrink to the point where it threatened the thing inside? How much time did he have?

The orb continued its slow rotation, until the form inside turned enough to present its front to him. He blinked and stared.

The face was familiar. He'd seen it almost every day since their first train ride to Hogwarts. Messy black hair brushed the top of the orb. The long, slender body, equally devoid of clothes, curled tight as the walls pressed in on all sides. A lightning shaped scar marked his forehead.

"Harry! Harry Potter!"

A clear note, like struck crystal, filled the air. He moved back, startled, until the single note dissipated. He called again, careful not to yell.

"Harry, can you hear me?"

Again the pure tone, this one more sustained. The orb wall-was he imagining it or-yes, it had expanded just the tiniest bit, enough to allow the slightest bit of space between Harry's head and the top of the sphere. Prism rainbows appeared on the orb's surface as light fractured off tiny cracks in the wall.

It made no sense-if the orb responded to noise, why hadn't it reacted to his questions addressed to the void?

Whatever the answer, one truth remained: he had to get Harry out of the orb before it started shrinking again. But how to do it?

* * *

When Neville Longbottom jerked awake, he had the misfortune to be staring directly at a burning wall sconce. Blinded by its brilliance, he closed his eyes and turned away from the flames.

He blinked and stared around, at first unable to establish anything about his surroundings. The void had become Neville's reality. He was a long moment reconnecting with Hogwarts and his life there.

He was on a bed in the hospital wing. A glance at the windows showed the first rose-tinted clouds of dawn.

Every bed seemed to be occupied, though something told Neville they weren't there for medical reasons. Ron's parents curled up together in one magically expanded bed, covered by a mound of blankets. Beyond them he saw Cornelius Fudge-when had the Minister arrived-and Harry's Muggle relations. Neville was surprised to see Professor Lupin on one bed, a big black dog curled against his blanket-draped back. Of all the beings visible from Neville's location, only the dog was awake, its eyes intent and ears peaked as it stared toward the far end of the chamber.

A huff of sound brought his attention back to the closer beds. Hermione occupied the bed directly to the right of Neville's own. Draco Malfoy slept on the next one over. Hard snores brought Neville's awareness to the platform on his left. Professor Snape sprawled across the student-sized bed, his stockinged feet shoved through the slats of the footboard.

Voices. He heard voices, soft and deep, intense with emotion. The sounds came from behind the cloth dividers around the section of room where Harry's hospital bed lay.

Neville Longbottom threw aside his blankets and stood, only to find his legs unsteady beneath him. A wild grab of the bed frame saved him from an embarrassing tumble to the cold stone floor.

Something pressed against his right leg. Neville looked down to find the black dog at his side, looking up at him with too-intelligent eyes. The dog whined once, an unmistakable sound of encouragement. A cold nose nuzzled his palm as though urging him to grab hold of the dog's furry back for support.

After a few moments, Neville dared to release the metal frame and, with the dog's support, take a single, wobbly step. The first success heralded a second, more confident step, until he made his way around the screen.

Ron Weasley draped across a nearby chair, weary to the point of collapse. Only stubborn pride kept him awake. Behind him, Rubeus Hagrid leaned against the wall, intent on observing the happenings without being in anyone's way. A pile of broken threads and clumps of demolished linen lay across Hagrid's boots-the half-giant had ripped his handkerchief to shreds and had started doing the same to the hem of his molefur vest.

Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall stood on the far side of the corner bed. Headmaster Dumbledore, clad in his dragon-decorated ash gray robes, stood on the near side. All three wore matching expressions of concern. Exhaustion lined every face and made every shoulder slump. Madam Pomfrey in particular appeared ready to fall down.

Neville did not recognize the floating patient beneath the thick coating of golden paste. The congealed lotion covered every inch of the body, from crown to toenail. A distinctodor of spice filled the air. The body more closely resembled a golden statue devoid of detail than it did a living, breathing human being.

"The lotion is reversing the skin loss," the mediwitch said, an unmistakable note of vexation in her voice as she ran her wand over Harry's unresponsive body, "and his life signs are improving. The lesions are gone and his magical signature is stabilizing. Even his hair is regenerating. Every reading indicates the curse has been reversed. He should be waking up. I don't understand why he isn't."

_Harry ... unaware ... like an infant in the womb ... the orb ... shrinking ... except when one talks directly to it ..._

Neville spoke his thoughts. "We need to talk to him."

Both Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall turned and looked at Neville. Minerva tilted her head to stare at him over the top of her glasses. Her expression was part irritation and part grasping at any straw. Poppy's held only desperate hope.

"What is that you say, Mr. Longbottom?"

Presented with the question, Neville thought about how his answer would sound. _"Please, Professor, the answer came to me in a seer's dream."_ He cringed away from the embarrassing picture in his mind. A warm, moist dog tongue against the inside of his wrist encouraged him to speak anyway, despite the potential humiliation.

"I ... I had a dream. Harry was floating in a great void. A dark place with no light or warmth, no sound or anything. He was there, and I was there, but he couldn't see me. He's lost, trapped in an orb of light. The orb is shrinking, about to crush him. We need to help him get back."

"A dream, Mr. Longbottom?" Dumbledore laid his hand on Neville's trembling shoulder. "At this point, we will accept any avenue of advice. Talk to him, you say?"

Neville nodded. "When I spoke to the void itself, nothing happened. It was only when I spoke _directly to Harry_ that the orb expanded."

"Very well. Round up ... or rather wake up ... one or two who are his friends. Add Mr. Malfoy to your list if you would, please. It might be best, however, if you let the others sleep, particularly the Dursleys. I daresay you'll find everyone we need here in this room, sleeping." Professor Dumbledore turned to Ron and suggested, "Mr. Weasley, you should take the time to sleep yourself so that you will be refreshed enough to take your turn talking. We will set up a schedule. Someone will be at his side, speaking to him at all times."

* * *

"And then Malfoy cast some kind of spell on the Muggles," Ron said to Harry. "He said that, yeah, we could have turned them into slugs or grubs or even monkey-faced jackasses. The Professors might even've liked to do the same themselves but they would've had to change them back right away. Draco said it was a delayed-reaction curse but I'll be damned if I know what it'll do. I suppose we have to wait until the next new moon to find out." 

"That story's not true," Hermione scolded as she scratched behind the ears of the black dog sprawled across the foot of Harry's bed. "Is it?"

"True as my name is Ronald Weasley. Wizard's honor."

Hermione raised both eyebrows, sighed, and whispered, "Bizarre."

The two teens fell silent as, on the other side of the bed, the school's mediwitch ran her wand over Harry Potter's body. Sometime in the long hours since dawn, the levitation spell had been cancelled. Harry lay directly on the bed, though he still resembled a featureless golden statue draped by a single sheet.

"How is he, Madam?" Ron asked.

"We're getting close," Madam Pomfrey said. "I can feel it."

Standing at the foot of the bed, Neville Longbottom added in a hoarse, overused voice, "We've all been talking to him since dawn this morning. I'm running out of things to say."

Beside him, one hip hooked over the top of the footboard, arms crossed over his chest, Draco Malfoy sighed. "It's been eleven hours. What more can we do?"

Hermione stared long and hard at the dog, deep in thought. Padfoot twitched, whimpered, and made himself very small. He rested his head between his paws on the bedcovers beside Harry's right knee and let his ears droop.

"I have an idea," Hermione said. "Madam, would you leave Ron and I alone with him? For just a few minutes?"

The mediwitch scowled at the girl for several heartbeats before shrugging her agreement.

"Very well, Ms. Granger. I'll grasp at anything at this point."

Madam Pomfrey shooed Draco and Neville from the area. When the mediwitch reached for the dog, Hermione said, "Padfoot can stay."

"Very well. The rest of us will take a moment to grab something to eat. Call if there's any change."

And with that, Madam Pomfrey disappeared around the screens.

"What's your idea?" Ron asked.

In a voice barely louder than a whisper, Hermione called, "Padfoot, come here."

The dog jumped off the bed and came to stand directly next to Hermione.

"Sirius, Harry needs to hear your voice more than anyone else's. Change back into yourself and do what you can. Ron and I will keep watch. We'll give you enough warning to change back to your animagus form if anyone comes close."

The two teens moved over to the screen, peeking around the edge to get an idea of everyone's location. By the time they turned back around, the dog was gone. In his place a dark-haired man, his too-lean body showing the stresses of half-a-lifetime on the run, knelt near the head of Harry's bed. His robes, though patched and worn, were clean.

Sirius Black leaned close to whisper directly into his godson's lotion-covered ear.

"Harry? It's me, Sirius. I'm here, son. I'm right here with you. All your friends are here. Ron and Hermione, the Longbottom boy, even Draco Malfoy, though I'm not sure you would classify any Malfoy as a friend. Remus is here, as well as Arthur and Molly Weasley. We're all here with you, Harry. Won't you wake up for us? For me?"

He paused, searching for any sign of wakefulness. Finding none, he turned despairing eyes to the two teenagers.

"Keep talking to him," Hermione mouthed, her words accompanied by a 'keep going' swirl of her hand.

"Please wake up, lad. Let me know you're still with us. Neville Longbottom says you're lost in a great black void. That doesn't sound like a very pleasant place to be. It's much better here, all things considered. Please, Harry? Won't you open your eyes? Won't you come back to me? I ... I know I haven't been the kind of Godfather you that James and Lily meant for me to be. I wasn't here for you those first, hard years, but I'm here now, and I'll do anything I can to make it up to you. I-I love you, Harry Potter. I don't know what I'll do if you don't-"

A blue spark, like static electricity, cracked the air.

Sirius reared back, wide-eyed and slack-jawed with surprise. As a sign of change, it was rather unmistakable. He returned to his godson's bedside.

"Harry? Follow my voice. Let it guide you back. Come to me, Harry. Come home."

Blue streaks crackled in the air close to Harry's body, skipping across the surface of the medicinal coating. The snap and sizzle of discharged electricity overwhelmed the surprised voices from the other side of the partitions. The biting scent of raw, untamed ozone flooded the air.

Ron slapped Sirius Black's shoulder and said, "Everyone's coming! Change back to Padfoot, quick!"

Sirius returned to his animagus form without an instant to spare. The screens blew away on a gust of magic-powered wind. They impacted with the far wall hard enough to squash the frames flat and leave a permanent indentation in the stone.

Lightning streaked around the room in ever-larger and brighter streamers. Windows shattered despite powerful antibreaking charms. Burn marks scored finger-deep ruts into Hogwart's ancient stone walls.

All around the chamber, people dove for whatever cover they could find. Hagrid grabbed one of the dislodged doors and used it as a shield to protect Professor McGonagall and the adult Weasleys from deadly debris. It was all Albus Dumbledore and Remus Lupin could do to defend themselves and thethree petrified Muggles from the projectile storm. Cornilius Fudge dove beneath the other broken door and cowered under its dubious shelter.

A howling wind roared through the chamber, lifting anything light enough to float on its current. A hum, like tapping together two pieces of pure Waterford crystal, chimed over all other noise. It was a sound Neville Longbottom instantly recognized.

The pure note flared with a final, deafening blast of sound. Great blobs of lotion exploded away from Harry's body. The golden substance splattered everywhere, on walls, ceiling, floors, and furniture, on people and objects all around the room. The pattern was similar to when a dog shook to clean a coat covered in dripping mud. The sticky muck landed anywhere and everywhere, irregardless of power, titles, age, or prestige.

Silence descended, broken only by the occasional _glop_ as blobs of dissipated lotion fell to the floor. One by one, wizards and Muggles abandoned their hiding places.

Hermione, Ron, and Padfoot wiggled from beneath Harry's bed. The black dog gave the afore-described shake. Clumps of golden, doughy goo shot away in all directions.

"Padfoot," Hermione scolded, having received a major portion of the impromptu shower, "do you _mind?_"

A soft moan drew everyone's attention to hospital wing's only true occupant.

Harry lay on the bed, his newly grown skin a rosy, fresh pink shade such as was left behind after the peel of a bad sunburn. His hair and eyebrows, though currently little more than dark peach fuzz, was clearly regrowing. Ron blushed on his friend's behalf and grabbed a fresh sheet from the bedside table to drape over Harry's naked body.

"Harry?" Ron called. "Mate, are you awake?"

* * *

Harry Potter stared at the faces that hovered around him, all with various expressions of delight or concern. Hermione's fingertips brushed across his forehead, a warm and comforting touch. Ron squeezed his right hand even as Neville did the same with his left. 

Draco Malfoy and the adults, wizardfolk and Muggles alike looking frazzled and worn, gathered at the foot of his bed. Near the head of his bed, a black dog pranced and barked, his tail whipping deliriously. The dog-was it Padfoot-reared up, rested his paws on the bed, and gave Harry's face a resounding lick.

Some part of Harry's conscious mind noted the utterly demolished room but could find neither the interest nor the strength to question it. Harry looked up at Hermione, eyes unfocused.

"You did it? You ... made it back?"

"Yes, Harry," Hermione answered. "We found the Dawn's Glory and made it back in time."

"Don't you worry, Harry mate," Neville smiled. "The curse is broken. You're going to be just fine."

Ron gave the hand a firm squeeze. "Welcome back, mate."

Pain-free and safe for the first time in days, Harry Potter smiled at his best friends and let sleep carry him away.

* * *

_A/N: Whew! Only one more chapter to go. This has been a Wild Ride! Of all the chapters in GTT, this was the hardest to write. I wanted to avoid all the typical cliche'd endings-Harry approaches a heavenly glow but is turned back by his Mum and Dad because he "still has so much to do," etc ...blech, way overused!_

_I hope I havejustified everyone's patience and faith in my writing. Thank you all for your wonderful reviews. They have made this a most enjoyable fanfic story to write._


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Nearly two weeks after Harry's miraculous awakening, Neville Longbottom leaned a hip against the metal footboard and waved around the most recent copy of the Daily Prophet. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley sat on the same side of the bed even as Draco Malfoy lounged in a chair on the opposite side. A shaggy black dog draped himself up and down the mattress, his back pressed against Harry's blanket-draped, outstretched legs.

In the hospital bed, seated with a mount of pillows at his back, Harry Potter enjoyed their visit during one of his increasingly frequent waking periods.

"Word's out about the curse," Longbottom said. "And the cure. And the labyrinth and the atrium. There's a three-page article in here, with interviews and photos and everything."

Hermione nodded. "I overheard Professor McGonagall talking to the Headmaster. They're constantly having to chase reporters off of Hogwarts grounds. I even heard them talking about how they had a devil of a time this morning keeping Platform 9 and 3/4 clear for the students to board the train. With everyone returning tonight on the Hogwarts Express, it will only get worse!"

"At least the Dursleys aren't here anymore." Harry shuddered, remembering one of his earliest awakenings to find the horrendous trio glaring down on him as though his survival had been a personal insult aimed specifically at them.

"Speaking of the Dursleys. Okay, Malfoy." Ron rose from his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and spread his feet wide in an unmistakable 'no one is going anywhere until we get answers' stance. "Tonight is the New Moon. Time to 'fess up. What did you do to the Muggles?"

"You do realize, part of me wants to leave you all in the--_hem_--dark." Draco looked from one Gryffindor face to the next. Satisfied that he'd yanked their chains as only a loyal Slytherin could, he chuckled at their various glares of pique and ire. Even the dog huffed and grumbled as though insulted. "However, I must admit, I am as curious as you to see the results. It will be amusing, if nothing else."

"Draco Malfoy," Harry Potter said, "what did you _DO_?"

"I cast a spell developed by the Dark Lord himself--" Four Gryffindors gasped in horror and one dog yelped-- "To reveal Muggle relatives of Muggle-born or half-blood witches or wizards. It seems he has a special fate planned for Muggles such as that. At the next new moon, any Muggle touched by this spell will ... " Draco's grin was positively wicked. "Well, let's just say, they won't need to turn on any lights. Their very blood will shine a silver-blue."

"They glow in the dark?" Ron said. A giant grin spread across his face. "Wicked! This I just have to see!"

"And how do you intend to do that, Ron?" Hermione said. "The Dursleys have returned to--" The young witch glanced toward the Slytherin and decided against naming the exact location, saying instead, "to their home. We can't go there and no one, especially Harry, wants them to come back _here_."

Draco Malfoy reached down into his book bag and withdrew a foot-square mirror lined with unadorned silver. He admired his own pale, immaculate reflection for a long moment before passing the mirror over to Harry.

"Despite our recent improvement in relations, I doubt you want a _Malfoy_ to have access to your 'loving sanctuary.' You'll need to get someone else to help you cast the revealing spell."

Hermione stared toward the ceiling, at the last of the evening's sunbeams, for several seconds before pinning Draco with a glower hot enough to fry bangers. "How can we cast it if you don't tell us what it is!"

Malfoy lidded his eyes and leaned back onto two chair legs, his shoulders braced against the infirmary wall.

"Keep your knickers on, Granger. Weasley probably knows it, but I doubt a Muggle-raised wizard or a mud--muggle-born like yourself will recognize it."

Ron perked up. Staring at the mirror, he asked, "You mean the _Reflecto_ charm?"

"I know that one!" Hermione said even as the last rays of the sun faded and the wall torches flared to life. "It turns every piece of glass within the same room as the target into windows that someone with an attuned mirror can see through. Parents often use it to keep tabs on smaller children in other parts of the house, to make certain they aren't getting into any mischief. It requires the participation of someone who considers the residence to be home."

Harry sighed and stared at his own reflection. His skin, while no longer rosy pink, was still tender to the touch and void of all but the sparsest hair. The combination of tender skin and new hair growth definitely played havoc on any attempt at wearing regular clothes. His head sported growth that in the Muggle world would have been referred to as a buzz-cut. The lightning-bolt scar on his forehead stood out red and raw in stark contract to his milky complexion, still pasty from his long illness.

"Meaning me." Harry took a deep breath, held it, then released it in one hard rush of air. "Okay, Ron. Show me what to do."

* * *

A storm raged in Little Whinging, Surrey, visible through the partially opened curtains of the Dursleys' living area. Around the room, Vernon and Petunia offered gracious, somewhat unctuous, smiles to their three male guests, all upper level businessmen by the cut and color of their suits. The bored expressions on the visitors' faces proved the Dursleys were not the penultimate hosts they thought themselves to be. 

"Oh, gracious, what a terrible storm." Petunia's saccharin-sweet voice dripped with false sympathy for her guests. "I do hope none of you have to drive very far in this horrid weather."

* * *

Visibility through the mirror was broken down into five distinct images, as there were five pieces of glass in the living room angled to face either Petunia or Dudley. As either of the two Muggles moved into and out of range of any picture frame, mirror, or reflective glass surface, another "window" would open or close on the surface in Harry's hands. 

In the Hogwarts hospital wing, Harry muttered, "It would never occur to her to offer to let them stay until the weather passes."

"If you were one of those three," Ron said, pointing to the unknown Muggles, "would you want to stay at the Dursleys any longer than you absolutely had to?"

"Good point, Ron. Very good point."

* * *

The power flickered at Number 4 Privet Drive as Dudley vanished into the kitchen to sneak another quarter of chocolate cake slathered in double-chocolate icing and colorful sprinkles. The outage lasted only a fraction of a second, not even long enough to unset the kitchen's electric clocks, yet his parents gasped and stared at him in mounting horror. 

In that fractured second, Dudley Dursley glowed like St. Elmo's Fire.

"Umm, son." Vernon Dursley did his best to appear concerned and solicitous as he excused himself from his guests and moved into the kitchen. "I believe it might be time for you to head up to bed."

"Bed? 's way too early for bed. 'n I'm still hungry."

At least, everyone listening _assumed_ that was what he said. The actual words were warped and muffled by the rather large wad of chocolate cake with icing that filled the large boy's mouth and smeared across all of his chins.

Vernon leaned in close to whisper into Dudley's ear, "There's something _strange_ going on. _That_ _kind _of strange. Go upstairs before any of them notice. Go on, son."

* * *

"Think he'll get out of the room before the power fails again?" Ron asked. 

"I certainly hope not," Harry answered.

"The spell is on the woman, as well," Draco said, "which you might observe, they haven't noticed yet."

* * *

At Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, Petunia hurried to switch on every downstairs light and lamp, as though that might prevent another power outage. In truth, her rush to flood the house with electronic light succeeded only in overloading the fuse and throwing the breaker. 

At that exact same instant, lightning struck the nearest transformer, throwing the entire neighborhood into total darkness.

Someone screamed. It might have been Vernon, whom the outage caught still trying to shepherd his whale of a son up the stairs, tempting him with the contents of the cake dish. It might have been Petunia, who caught her own glowing reflection in a wall mirror. Or it might have been any one of the three guests, who no longer looked bored, but rather scared out of their wits by the two shining apparitions.

In an otherwise total blackness, Petunia Dursley's stick-thin figure glowed a silvery blue, as though she'd been drenched head to toe in a phosphorus liquid. Dudley, with so much mass, threw off enough light to read by.

The three guests stampeded for the door, almost bowling over Vernon who tried to stifle their fears and salvage any business connections he could from the disaster.

* * *

"Oh, merciful Merlin, it couldn't have worked better if we'd planned it this way," Harry said, a hand pressed to his ribs to lessen the ache. All around him, students and dog rolled around, laughing. "Malfoy, you're a genius." 

Draco arched an eyebrow in Harry's direction. "Can I quote you on that?"

Harry shook his head. "I'll deny saying it until my dying breath."

"Just as well. No one would have believed me, anyway."

"_Hsssst!_" Hermione's warning cut through the laughter. "Someone's coming!"

Harry shoved the mirror beneath the mound of pillows even as Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey stepped around the curtains. Behind them, Remus Lupin peeked around the curtain, grinning at each of the students and waggled his fingers at Harry before stepping out from behind the obstruction.

"Well, Mr. Potter. From the sound of all the laughter coming from in here, I would say you're feeling much better than in days past." The mediwitch stared at him hard enough to make her patient wiggle in place. "Do you think you're up to a few hours in the Great Hall? I understand tonight's welcoming feast is going to be quite interesting."

"You're releasing me?"

"Only for the evening," Poppy cautioned. "I want you back in this bed the instant the feast concludes. Sooner, if you feel weak, dizzy, nauseous, lightheaded, or faint."

Remus smiled down on him. "And I am to make certain you follow these rules. So, are you ready to escape?"

A hitch of the werewolf's left arm brought everyone's attention to the student robes and loose-fitting trousers he carried. A pair of Harry's shoes dangled by their laces from his fingertips. A tube of socks stuck out of one shoe.

"Am I ever!"

Professor McGonagall shooed everyone except Remus and Poppy from the area, giving Harry privacy for one final medical exam and to change out of the one-sided hospital gown.

Fully clothed and more than ready to get out of the hospital wing, if only for a few hours, Harry gladly accepted his friends' help toward the outer doors.

"Potter, what is this mirror?" Harry and his fellow students shared a quick glance toward one another before sprinting through the exit, trailed by one very puzzled werewolf. The last they heard before passing beyond hearing distance was Madam Pomfrey's voice, saying, "Why, it's the Dursleys--_what on earth?_"

The walk from the hospital wing to the Great Hall sapped most of Harry's recovered strength. Only by leaning on Ron and Remus could he make the distance. By the time they reached the massive oak doors, the returning students had already filed in and found their places at each house table.

A buzz of sound greeted Harry Potter's entry into the Great Hall. Whispers filled the space and hands pointed his direction from every table in the room. Harry froze, uncertain whether he wanted to draw any more attention, especially attention derived from something so foolish as throwing himself in the path of an unknown curse.

"Hey, look." Ron pointed to the head of the Gryffindor table, where a sea of red-haired people sat grouped together. Every figure there waved in joyous welcome. "It's Mum, Dad, Charlie, and Bill. Fred, George, and Ginny are with them. Hey, even Percy's there. What're they all doing here?"

"And there." Hermione pointed to a guest table set off to one side of the faculty places. "Aren't those the researchers and doctors from St. Mungo's, the ones spending so much time in the atrium?"

"My ... my Gran is here, too." Neville swallowed a lump of anxiety as he spotted the witch with the vulture-topped hat seated at the end of the guest table. "What's she doing here?"

"I'm sure it can only be a good thing," Harry tried to reassure his yearmate.

Remus leaned in and whispered into Harry's ear, "Looks like everyone's ready to eat except us. Let's get you all to your seats so they can begin, all right?"

Harry and his companions settled into their places, with Snuffles curled up at Harry's feet, Draco reluctantly separating to sit at the Slytherin table and Remus to sit in the last empty space at the guest table beside Mrs. Longbottom. The buzz of voices rose to a deafening pitch, echoing and re-echoing off the ceiling until no one could understand a single word anyone else said.

Minerva McGonagall's knife rang against a crystal goblet, exhorting silence. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, rose from his chair and motioned for everyone' attention. The boisterous echoes receded, leaving only the last hum of glass before vanishing altogether.

"Might I have a moment of everyone's time? Yes, good. Thank you so much. Through the auspices of the Daily Prophet, most of you are somewhat aware of events that occurred here over the holiday vacation. I will not reiterate them, save for this. Were it not for a fortunate discovery made by a single Hogwarts student, we would not this night be celebrating another student's return to health." Dumbledore smiled benignly on Harry. "Rather, we would be gathering to mourn a tragic passing."

Dumbledore motioned to the short, dumpy witch who sat further down the faculty table. "Professor Sprout?"

Blushing furiously, the Herbology professor and Head of Hufflepuff House rose from her chair and tried to meet everyone's eyes. Finding that far too uncomfortable, she settled for looking with joy on Neville Longbottom and the other Gryffindors seated near him.

"For discovery of the atrium garden and, to date, over one hundred thirty species of plant and animal that were previously assumed extinct, I award 50 points to Neville Longbottom."

A round of applause rippled through the Great Hall, centered most on the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. The counters showed Gryffindor within 5 points of taking the lead for the House Cup. Only Ravenclaw stood higher in the count.

Before the clapping and chatter could subside, a tall, thin, hawk-nosed figure in black rose from his place further down the faculty table. Silence rippled outwards until every voice fell silent.

Severus Snape glowered out over the assembly. His sour expression stated quite clearly his desire to be anywhere but there.

"Credit must go where it is due. Even to a Gryffindor. For numerous acts of bravery which either directly or indirectly saved the lives of a fellow student and ... a faculty member of this school ..." Red-faced and reluctant, Snape tugged at the collar of his robes, "I award fif--_ung_--fifty points each to--_Slytherin save me_--Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom."

Snape fell back into his chair with a grateful sigh. Stunned silence from every table, students and adults alike, followed his announcement. Snape's scowl, if anything, darkened. The silence pervaded until a single whisper from the Weasley section of the Gryffindor table murmured, "Merlin's beard, that I've lived to see this day."

The chamber exploded with noise.

Dumbledore let the raucous behavior continue several minutes before finally lifting a hand to silence the din. In the resumed stillness, the Headmaster gathered up and opened a scroll that sat on the table beside his plate.

"I have here one last reward, this one also to Mr. Longbottom. I won't bore you all by reading the full missive. Suffice it to say, this is a letter of merit from St. Mungo's for Mr. Longbottom's contribution to the increased care for their patients. Along with this letter comes a 1,000 galleon reward to go toward the completion of his schooling in whatever post-graduation branch of wizardry he may wish to pursue."

Neville stared bug-eyed and stunned as each professor offered their points and accolades. He held his composure until he laid eyes on his grandmother. Tears poured down his cheeks--her nod and smile of approval were the finest rewards of all.

"Now." The Headmaster set the scroll aside. "Fine words though they are, it is now time to eat!"

At Dumbledore's single clap, enough food appeared on the tables to make every board groan under the weight.

"So, Neville." Seamus Finnigan nudged his yearmate. "We've read what the papers have to say. What really happened?"

Neville stared first at Harry, who motioned him to carry on; to Hermione, who said it was his story to tell; to Ron, who shrugged and said he'd rather the Gryffindor version make the rounds before the Slytherin one; and finally to Remus, who smiled and nodded.

"Well ... I guess it all started back at the start of the year, on the day I disappeared."

" ... so that's when Hermione found the exit just in time. We slid down this wild slide, zipping this way and that, all three of us yelling our heads off, until we burst through a wall of greenery to land smack against Hagrid's legs."

Hermione at last said, "I must admit to being initially puzzled by the discrepancies of the secret chamber."

"What discrepancies were those, Hermione?" Dean Thomas asked.

"Well, first off, despite all of the Ravenclaw clues, Rowena Ravenclaw was not known for her gardening. That was more Helga Hufflepuff's personality. Rowena was more known for animals than plants. Second were the dragon motifs all around the main door and over the exit hatch. The deep gouges in the stone were caused by what looked like claw marks. And third, all of those deadly traps are overkill to protect a greenhouse, even one so spectacular as that one. However, such traps and security would not be overkill to either hold in--or keep curiosity-seekers out of--a dragatorium."

"A dragatorium?" Neville whispered.

"I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find that Rowena Ravenclaw raised dragons in that room, only for someone else to come along later to put it to another use."

* * *

Professor Sprout, who had spent the last week in a cloud of ecstasy over the room's contents, pulled Dumbledore aside and whispered, "Do we tell Longbottom that two of the plants he found, when combined, are key ingredients in a drought for curing madness?" 

Albus tapped the Herbology Professor's hand. "Not yet. We'll know in a month or so. If we can help his parents, we will tell him then. If we fail, his hopes have not been raised in vain. Besides," the Headmaster eyed the grinning boy, his own gaze bright with calm pride, "his day is as full as he can stand at this moment. Let's let him enjoy it."

Professor McGonagall sighed. "He's a true Gryffindor after all."

Dumbledore nodded. "A true Gryffindor indeed."

END

_A/N: WHEW! Finished at just over 51,000 words and before Book Six is released! I never thought I'd meet that deadline, at least. I started this story well before Book Five came out, so it's been an AU for some time now. _

Still, I hope everyone enjoyed it. I firmly believe that Neville Longbottom has some major role to play in bringing down Voldemort. There's a reason he is in Gryffindor.

Thank you all for following this story to its conclusion. I have begun working on another HP fic, a form of Super!Harry -- Voldemort really should research the bond between them before he goes around trying to increase his own powers. I'm waiting until the next JKR story comes out to line up my facts with canon, but I hope to post the first chapter soon after, if there's any interest in reading it.

Again, thank you all and Happy Reading.


End file.
